Oops, I did it again
New Year’s resolutions are like that treadmill in your den: full of potential but destined to collect dust by February and turn into a towel and garment rack by March.
I’ve seen it all—from the evolution of tech and the mutation of teens into slaves to tech to the perpetuation of political clans in power and the growing admiration for the bizarre (think Dr. Pimple Popper or TikTok reels showing feet)—but I find the whole tradition of making resolutions both charmingly naïve and hilariously futile.
And yet, here I am, gearing up to make my own promises for 2025, knowing full well they might not survive the first month or even the Epiphany.
Why do we keep making New Year’s resolutions? Psychologists say it’s about hope, a chance to wipe the slate clean, like pressing the reset button.
But before diving into my own ridiculous plans, let’s take a step back. Where did this whole idea of New Year’s resolutions come from in the first place? Why do we insist on making them, year after year, despite overwhelming evidence that most of us will fail?
Around 4,000 years ago, in the Mesopotamian city of Babylon (in modern-day Iraq), folks made promises to the gods to pay off debts and return borrowed items. I imagine there was at least one Amorite guy who forgot to return a goat and spent the year dodging divine judgment.
Julius Caesar raised the bar by dedicating January to Janus, the two-faced god of beginnings and transitions. Romans would reflect on past mistakes and vow to be better. Despite Caesar’s inability to do his own reflecting and consequently to improve or take revenge on his enemies (Et tu, Brute?), it’s nice to think that even back then, someone was swearing to cut back on wine and start running (probably fleeing from an angry senator).
Modern-day New Year’s resolutions have become a cultural phenomenon, ranging from the earnest (I’ll volunteer more!) to the absurd (I’ll finally learn to juggle flaming torches!).
But why do we keep doing it? Psychologists say it’s about hope, a chance to wipe the slate clean, like pressing the reset button. As a Gen Xer, I’d argue it’s also about guilt. Nothing motivates self-improvement quite like knowing you spent more time in December eating out than working out.
Most New Year’s resolutions fall into predictable categories: health goals like losing weight, quitting smoking, or exercising more (which often translates to joining a gym you’ll visit twice before canceling); financial goals such as saving money, paying off debt, or curbing impulse buys on Amazon or Shopee (good luck resisting deals that are “too good to be true”—which could only mean they’re untrue); and personal growth aspirations like learning a new skill, reading more books, or finally stopping procrastination (I think I can do this some time in February).
The problem with these resolutions is that they’re often vague, unrealistic, or just plain boring. It’s no wonder they fail.
So this year, I’ve decided to abandon the clichés in favor of resolutions that are both quirky and attainable. Maybe I’ll write rhyming emails— “Please be informed that at 2 p.m. today / per instruction of he who has the final say / we shall meet at yonder conference room / where great ideas shall either flourish or meet their doom.”
Or perhaps, I’ll try to master a new skill, like organizing our house à la Konmari or plating meals like Gordon Ramsay while nailing a British accent. Along the way, I could learn to pronounce tricky food words like “gnocchi,” “Worcestershire,” “açaí’” or “gyro” so I can utter them with confidence and pretend to be cultured.
Being a diarist—what bloggers used to be—I could start a “thank you” journal, not for gratitude but to record the names of people who should be thanking me (e.g., my kids, for the chauffeuring job; my barber, for my frequent haircuts; our neighborhood carwash operator, for paying him to do something I used to enjoy; and of course, our politicians, for my taxes and my patience that they also tax).
Despite their inherent silliness, resolutions persist because they represent hope. Every January 1st, we convince ourselves this will be the year we become the best version of ourselves. Whether or not we succeed isn’t the point; it’s the trying that matters.
I find this amusingly ironic: I belong to the generation that perfected cynicism, yet we still cling to the idea of fresh starts. Maybe it’s because we’ve seen enough change in our lives—from landlines to smartphones, vinyl to streaming, gas guzzlers to EVs, in-person shopping to online everything—to believe that transformation is always possible.
If I’m honest, my resolutions for 2025 aren’t really about Shakespearean emails or becoming a pretentious elitist. At my age, it’s all about maintaining old connections while creating new ones. So I’ll spend as much time with my family as I can, even if it means slogging through Metro Manila traffic day in, day out. I’ll commit to get-togethers instead of merely saying, “I’ll try” before bailing out at the 11th hour. I’ll send postcards when I’m in another country or meaningful messages (better yet, I’ll call) rather than merely automatically clicking that like icon.
Continuing education for me wouldn’t be about becoming a better lawyer but turning into the best version of me, i.e., the Kuya ng Bayan to my mostly younger friends. And most importantly, I want to live in the present—yes, it’s a cliché, but have you tried having a meaningful conversation without glancing at your phone? It’s harder than you think.
In the end, New Year’s resolutions are ridiculous, but maybe that’s their charm. They remind us not to take life, or ourselves, too seriously. So go ahead, make your list. Resolve to do something silly, ambitious, or downright impossible. Who knows? You might surprise yourself. And if not? There’s always next year.
