There’s a spoiled brat standing between me and my new year’s resolutions.
Over the holidays, he’s been naughty; eating and drinking everything in sight, watching more TV than I’m comfortable with, staying up late, etc. Now, it’s time to rein him in, but he’s having none of it.
The brat is, weirdly enough, me. Bridling him isn’t going to be fun.
My holiday season wasn’t just about love, Jesus, goodwill, etc. It was, as it’s been for the majority of my “adult” life, indulgence just on the outer rim of debauchery. But I had fun – friends, family, food, cocktails, splurges, letting myself off-chain for a spell, enjoying all… ALL… of the good things the holidays had to offer.
It’s always a wonderful change of pace.
But whenever I steamroll healthy boundaries, even for a short period of time, my soul attaches itself to the new routine, full of comfort and joy but sorely lacking restraint, or anything that resembles the strength required to live well. By the time January 1 rolls around, my willpower is weaker than it was before Thanksgiving.
Making healthy choices is not unlike lifting weights in the gym: after a month off, most of the adultimatums required for my preferred future are too hard to lift.
So, when I tug on the reins, the brat responds like I’m trying to kill him, begging me to stop. In the past, I’ve tried to use logic, outlining all of the reasons why he should change his behavior, and how good it will feel once he surrenders. But that never works. Spoiled brats don’t play nice – they certainly don’t respond to helpful bible verses, spreadsheets, diet plans, accountability partners, or sticky notes on the bathroom mirror.
I’ve also tried shame – ruminating over all the reasons why my lack of self control makes me a bad person, using negativity as a sick sort of motivation. But that only works for a little while, and nothing makes me hungry like a good dose of depression.
This year, I’ve decided to take the healthy-parenting route and put the kibosh on this ASAP. There are no legitimate parenting resources that call for anything but clear, albeit difficult boundaries when a kid decides that he gets to do whatever he wants.
The same goes for my inner, post-holiday whippersnapper.
But there’s a reason why spoiled kids lose their minds when a caregiver tries to unspoil them. It hurts. This process is painful, maybe a bit frightening. There’s nothing so cold and lonely as saying “NO!” to the midnight snack that I’ve been enjoying every night for the past 4 weeks.
There’s no shame here. The problem is not that I’m a bad person, or that I have deeply seated self-control problems. My self simply doesn’t want to be controlled after such a long period of not being controlled.
I don’t have character issues, or a mal-formed personality. This is a normal, human thing.
So, in just a few weeks, when I’ve blown through my best laid plans, I’m not going to get depressed about it. I’ll simply admit that I’ve failed to deal effectively with my spoiled self, and try, try again.
My plan is, first, to embrace the ancient truth that extreme circumstances call for extreme measures. As such, the most effective tool for me in the early days has always been fasting. Nothing reins in my spoiled self like a good, full day of no food. Telling my body “NO!” over and over again, and reminding myself that it won’t be fatal, is the quickest way back to sanity.
Or, if I’m not in the mood for such an extreme, I’ll put myself on a strict diet for a few days. I won’t deny every craving, but after 72 hours, big changes will have transpired. The endgame here isn’t to lose weight, or to meet one of my new goals, it’s simply to calm the brat, and remind that little f@<ker who the boss is.
When I manage to succeed, it feels great. Turns out that big boundaries make me happier, although they can often feel like they’re going to kill me.
This of course hasn’t made any of my resolutions a walk in the park. Self control will always be a challenge. But it does remove a significant barrier, one that crows yearly atop a large heap of conquered hopes and dreams.
As I write this, cruising home at 35,000 feet, sitting next to a friend who’s just ordered a cocktail, I’m making my first big-boy choice of the season, enjoying a crisp, calorie-free plastic cup of soda water. Tomorrow, I’ll start my diet and make valiant attempts to lose 20 pounds before our trip to the beach in a couple of months.
If I can make it through the first week of internal temper-tantrum hell, I’ll have a bit more strength, courage, and emotional energy to consistently tell my inner brat “NO!”
In the meantime, wish me luck, for the child inside is a warrior.
