Two decades ago, on the last night of the year, I shared my New Year's resolutions with my spouse. I no longer recall the exact details – I believe they included learning Italian, mastering cooking, and curbing my after-work spending sprees. At the time, we resided in a Dublin 2 flat and worked in a Dublin 2 office, with a daily stroll across Grafton Street connecting the two. That short commute was draining my bank account. When I asked my husband about his resolutions, he replied that he didn't have any – he wasn't the type to make them. This pattern repeated annually: I would set my resolutions, he would set none, and it worked perfectly fine.
Over the years, my resolutions evolved only slightly. I kept them short and realistic to sidestep letdowns. Perhaps they are better described as goals – a modest set of annual ambitions: renovate the kitchen, start running, plan more day excursions, incorporate more fish into meals. Occasionally, I'd include an unattainable item (such as 'organize all photos into albums') that remains unchecked, but most were feasible. A satisfying checklist for someone who enjoys lists.
But this year was different. On New Year's Eve, my husband caught me off guard by revealing that he had crafted some resolutions. He then paused, expecting me to share mine. For the first time in my life, I had none. I understand why: I cannot focus on anything beyond the edits for book 2. Nothing else occupies my mind. I must complete those edits and return them to my editor. I have no energy left to fret over running distances, fish consumption, reading counts, or water intake. My sole priority is finishing the book; only then will I have the mental bandwidth to consider other matters.
I did feel somewhat guilty for lacking a goal list. Then I recalled a resolution I had contemplated just before Christmas. So I settled on that single aim, alongside the book. It's small, straightforward, and potentially transformative: I will select my outfit the evening prior. This was a habit I maintained during my office days, but now that I work from home, my attire is irrelevant.
And that's exactly the issue: because it no longer matters, choosing becomes even more difficult. Each morning, I groggily gaze at my closet, then abandon the task to summon the children again. I return to stare at endless rows of identical shirts, sweaters, and hoodies, then drift to the window or check the weather app. Then a child appears needing attention, followed by another, and before I realize it, my husband is heading out, everyone demands breakfast, and I'm still in my pajamas.
Picture being able to bypass all that drowsy dithering and staring. I would undoubtedly achieve superwoman-level efficiency. I could clean the kitchen before the school drop-off. I would never raise my voice at the children again. We would never be tardy. I would return home faster. I'd dive straight into work because the table would already be tidy. Superwoman. So that's my single goal. (Plus book 2 edits – not exactly a resolution but a necessity, yet far more attainable with my superwoman abilities.)
