The Non- Resolution Resolution

How I learned how to stop worrying and love the New Year

Happy New Year!

It was a hell of a New Year celebration. If I’m being honest, it was a bizarre two-week holiday.

The plan was to spend Christmas at home with the kids and then head off to Palm Springs, also known as the gayest place to spend New Year’s Eve in America. It didn’t disappoint on that front, as is evidenced by the number of micro-speedos I encountered on every clothing rack in every store, on every stage in the various bars we visited, and, of course, on the friend of a friend we ran into who was wearing nothing but a speedo and a pair of shoes.

In addition to the planned vacation, we also hosted an impromptu wedding at the Airbnb we rented, and that, while unanticipated and a wee bit chaotic, is always magical to be a part of, so that made the week all the more unique. There is always something beautiful about entering a community you are not a part of by geography or orientation and being welcomed with open arms, and that was certainly the case in Palm Springs. A friend who lives there described the population as “aged.” Indeed, we experienced that at our first New Year’s Eve stop, where we witnessed a stunning (not in a “wow, that was the best thing ever” way) performance by a musical group that may or may not have performed with The Andrews Sisters in their heyday. I will knock on that door soon enough, so I say bless them. I hope at 112, I, too, can wear a flapper dress covered in Christmas tree tinsel and butcher the classics.

But there was one tradition that was skipped this year.

Perhaps it was the wedding chaos or the fact that there were people in and out of the place we were staying all weekend (the man I’m seeing came out for a couple of days before the wedding guests began to arrive). But we didn’t read or make our New Year’s resolutions for 2025 on New Year’s Day, hungover in our PJs. I made some half-assed attempts to get us back on track and get it done, but it didn’t happen. If I’m being honest, the trip was a little off for various reasons. Still, I think the underlying culprit was the lack of resolutions, both reading (and the embarrassment over some of the choices one makes to resolve when deeply hungover and surrounded by your closest friends) and making them anew. Forget the political arguments, the fact that we were all slightly sick, and, oh yeah, that life-long commitment thing at the end; it was those damn resolutions that didn’t get made or reviewed that fucked it all up.

I was never a big resolutions girl. When I was married, my husband and I would sit diligently at the kitchen table at 10 PM on December 31 and write out our lists. I don’t remember them individually, but what I do remember is that every year, sitting at the table, we would both always have the same thing on our lists when we read them aloud:

HAVE MORE FUN

As though that was a chore, it was another thing to add to our daily to-do list that never got completed anyway. It always depressed the hell out of me, mainly because I knew it would never be a thing. I knew we would not have more fun; we had less fun each year as our marriage disintegrated. I vowed after my divorce that I would never write them again, but I started back up two years ago, and I have to say, I keenly felt its absence this year. I only remember two of my resolutions from last year, and I did both. The first was to learn French, and though I am not where I need to be, I did finish Pimsleur level 1, which was 31 lessons, and am now on level two, which primarily consists of trying to both learn and understand the number 96.

Sidebar: Seriously French? I have never worked in a language where I was required to do intricate math for a simple transaction at the tabac.

The second resolution was to get one of my books published. Since My Year of Really Bad Dates comes out on November 9, 2025, I'll also check that off the list. I’ll have to ask the spreadsheet keeper about my last two, and I hope I also made a dent in them, or at least they weren’t too embarrassing. The point is this: each year, we have an opportunity, even if it is for a few minutes before we pop the aspirin and eat the greasy egg breakfast to soak up the previous night’s booze, to start again. We could start again any time, but there is something about the first day of a New Year, even if the previous year was as hellacious as this last has been, that feels…hopeful. It’s less about the resolutions and more about that window of aspiration I crave.

I hope this year, I can write more, connect with more of you, sell the hell out of my first book, and sell another on top of the first. I wish for all of you to give yourselves at least a minute in that wishing zone where hope always springs eternal.