A new year is usually filled with resolutions, and mine often contradict one another. Save more money, but travel to new places. Start a more disciplined workout routine, but take more time to rest. Eat healthier, but also enjoy life’s most delicious pleasures. My goals end up clashing, and I’m left debating who I am trying to become—and what actually matters.
What makes a good year, anyway? For me, it’s one that has scheduled pleasures ahead: a calendar dotted with trips to places both new and foreign, and others familiar and beloved, already planned and booked. A good year feels like anticipation.
It is a year that holds the promise of foods worth dreaming about. I imagine pralines in New Orleans, spicy gumbo, and a chilled Pimm’s Cup (or three) as we wander through the Quarter. I can practically taste spit-roasted tacos al pastor in Mexico, fresh pineapple dripping onto the turning meat. I’m captivated by the flavors I haven’t yet discovered, in countries I still hope to visit.
And while the idea of a perfectly gym-toned body is appealing, it pales in comparison to the delights that might be waiting on a brunch table in Paris or pulled from a smoker at a gathering with friends back home.
I’ve spent so many early months of the year lifting weights, running, moving through endless vinyasas, and stepping on the scale—only to abandon all of it the moment a hot pan of paella appears in Valencia or when faced with the pull of a full day spent sunbathing somewhere warm and wonderful. It becomes a cycle of one step forward, two steps back, until I can’t even remember what the original resolution had been.
A few years ago, before my wedding, I resolved to be fit. I was eating the bare minimum, taking my workouts seriously—not because I was afraid I wouldn’t fit into the dress, but because I had spent so much money on the whole affair and dreaded looking anything less than terrific in the photos. But a week later, on our honeymoon in Southern France, it was croissants from the local bakery every morning and champagne on the beach every afternoon. And really—was all that dieting worth anything compared to bubbles in the sand and flaky pastries for breakfast? I had my doubts. When I returned home after two indulgent, carefree weeks, I had barely gained any weight at all. All that worry and stress, coloring every thought, for nothing. What was the point?
So unlike other years, this won’t be my year to “get in shape.” This new year, I think, will be for savoring all things.
Not just the rich and buttery ones, but also the burn of climbing hundreds of stairs. The long walks through small villages, no matter the weather. I want to savor the satisfaction of saving money before spending it on some far-flung adventure.
I want to challenge myself to enjoy each bite of pasta or sip of a cocktail, to experience each pose in a yoga class, to relish lazy moments on the couch. I want to live the moments of my life—not just push through the stressful, difficult, or dull ones. I want to pay attention, to find the beautiful, so that maybe life isn’t something to escape on vacation. Maybe the trip is simply a new perspective, a fresh experience to savor and collect.
My New Year’s resolution is to live. Really live. Not scroll or binge or count down to the weekend or the next trip, but to fully grasp the not-so-wonderful bits so the fantastic ones become even more beautiful to behold.
