Forty-One Days Into My Better Life

Forty-one days in. The year is no longer new and the resolutions are no longer pretending to be alive. Time to stand naked in front of the mirror and take honest stock. Figuratively. Mostly.

Career first. The window was right there—conferences I could have attended, the kind where everyone wears a lanyard and nods seriously at slides about the future of design. I could have thrown myself at potential clients and rattled off my Photoshop credentials and Apple product opinions with the required enthusiasm. I could have finally built the portfolio that’s been theoretical since 2008. I did none of it. I sat here instead, which is either the honest expression of my actual priorities or a catastrophic squandering of January’s only useful property. Probably both.

Love is worse. To take its temperature I only need to look at the wedding photos on the shelf: me and my right hand, very happy together, no plans for separation. That’s not my fault. The woman I actually want doesn’t seem to exist yet—Emma Watson’s face with Megan Fox’s body, auburn hair, freckles, C-cup, flat stomach, smells like something that grows in a garden, puffy nipples, proper Berlin girl, makes art, lives in an Altbau apartment in a neighborhood that hasn’t been ruined yet. I’m not being unreasonable. Someone get the geneticists on this.

So no fucking. The body is the final resolution and by now it’s the funniest. My belly has been laughing to itself since January 2nd. The chip bags from six different countries provided their own chorus. Currywurst, kebab, fries with mayo, cookies—all present and accounted for. The gym was always theoretical. My bike is broken. It’s February in Berlin, which means sport is simply not available as an option. The raw vegetables I bought in a fit of optimism went in the bin without touching the sides.

Here I am, then. My pseudo-council flat in Wedding—the unfashionable, working-class north of Berlin, emphatically not the plan—instead of a loft in whatever the right neighborhood is this season. Still ordering things from Amazon that arrive in unmarked packaging. Still having to physically navigate my own belly to reach anything useful. Tell me yours went differently. I won’t believe you, but tell me anyway.