Happy New Year. Or, as I like to call it, the week we all collectively agree to lie to ourselves.
Every January 1st, we decide that the version of us that’s been fueled by cheese boards and cheap Prosecco for three weeks is suddenly going to become an Olympic-level athlete. We sign up for the gym, a place that, for the rest of the year, is just a building we walk past while feeling slightly guilty and we buy enough kale to fill a compost heap.
The New Year’s resolution is a fascinating scam because we are both the con artist and the mark. We tell ourselves, “This is the year I learn Mandarin,” when we haven’t even mastered the art of putting the laundry away in the same week it was washed.
The gyms love it, of course. Their entire business model relies on you paying for a year-long membership in a moment of madness and then never showing up again. You’re essentially paying a monthly fee for the right to say, “I really should go to the gym,” which is a very expensive form of self-flagellation.
By February, the kale has turned into a liquid at the bottom of the fridge, and the only "running" we’re doing is running out of excuses. But don't worry, next year will be different. We'll tell ourselves the same lie, and we’ll believe it again. It’s the ultimate triumph of hope over experience.
| ☕ TIP (Help by donating)
| 📻 LISTEN (to the new radio podcast)
| 📺 WATCH (YouTube)
Every January 1st, we decide that the version of us that’s been fueled by cheese boards and cheap Prosecco for three weeks is suddenly going to become an Olympic-level athlete. We sign up for the gym, a place that, for the rest of the year, is just a building we walk past while feeling slightly guilty and we buy enough kale to fill a compost heap.
The New Year’s resolution is a fascinating scam because we are both the con artist and the mark. We tell ourselves, “This is the year I learn Mandarin,” when we haven’t even mastered the art of putting the laundry away in the same week it was washed.
The gyms love it, of course. Their entire business model relies on you paying for a year-long membership in a moment of madness and then never showing up again. You’re essentially paying a monthly fee for the right to say, “I really should go to the gym,” which is a very expensive form of self-flagellation.
By February, the kale has turned into a liquid at the bottom of the fridge, and the only "running" we’re doing is running out of excuses. But don't worry, next year will be different. We'll tell ourselves the same lie, and we’ll believe it again. It’s the ultimate triumph of hope over experience.
| ☕ TIP (Help by donating)
| 📻 LISTEN (to the new radio podcast)
| 📺 WATCH (YouTube)


















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