Resisting "Self-Improvement" and Just Showing Up (Or, the Story of My Perfect New Year's Eve)
On my way to being more present and not idealizing my future self.
Every January comes with an onslaught of “self-improvement” content, mainly in the form of advertising. The ads are very good at convincing us that this is the year we can finally lose weight, start exercising, get clear skin, do the 52-book reading challenge, or save enough money to buy a house in Toronto (not likely).
For anyone else like me who more naturally fixates on deficiencies, flaws, and mistakes over anything positive, this time of year is probably a minefield. Tapping into both the New Year mindset and any feelings of inadequacy that may emerge from the purgatory-like time off during the holidays, it feels like there’s an endless barrage of self-improvement ads in and between all the content we consume, especially on social media. You can’t go two minutes without seeing an ad for the weight-loss app Noom. Or a detox drink. Or a serum that promises to help you shed your dry, red, winter-cracked cocoon and emerge as a butterfly with dewy glass skin.
It might be hard to imagine how self-improvement could be a bad thing. Shouldn’t we all strive to be better versions of ourselves?
I’m not saying there’s anything inherently wrong with pursuing self-improvement, though can it be removed from its obvious, capitalistic trappings? Can it be rooted not in individualism but in community care? And, the question I’ve been thinking about the most: if we’re constantly trying to make ourselves better, are we ever truly happy with who we are? What happens if I just show up as I am?
I want to stop idealizing my future self and be more present. I feel like I’m always chasing myself. Never present, never having fun. So for my memory and your entertainment, let me tell you about my perfect New Year’s Eve — a rare but recent time when I was able to be fully present, be myself, and have a blast.
Approaching New Year’s Eve, I wanted nothing more than to dance and see off 2023 (a mostly difficult year) with optimism for what’s to come in 2024.
I woke up a little late on December 31st and decided to lean into it by making the most indulgent brunch I could think of: raspberry-pistachio French toast. I made fresh raspberry coulis and whipped cream and ate slowly while watching an old episode of Archer.
Around 3 PM, I went to the mecca of sensory overload — the Eaton Centre — with the express goal of finding something cute to wear that night. I had an outfit in mind with things I already owned, but I wanted to sparkle. In an unprecedented turn of events, within just minutes of walking into H&M, I found the perfect thing to wear — a black, cropped tank top covered in sequins. It was technically a size too big but I figured I would be grateful for the breathing room while dancing all night. While standing in line at the checkout, I noticed almost every other woman walking around the store had her arms full of sparkly, shiny, or metallic things, clearly on a mission to find a cute outfit for the night, obedient boyfriends trailing just behind them.
I went home, made a drink (vodka, limoncello, and mandarin-orange club soda — sounds better than it tasted), shaved my armpits over the bathroom sink and waited for my friend Ally to come over. She arrived fully ready and made up for our night out in a bright green dress, her brown hair falling perfectly straight. When I complimented it, she swung it around dramatically and imitated frying it with a straightening iron. Ally helped me decide on earrings and how to do my hair — we went with big gold hoops and little white butterfly clips. I paired my sparkly new shirt with comfy black pants and white sneakers. Ally’s friend Merima came over next and we all drank and caught up around my dining table. Merima poured a shockingly blue vodka drink from its can into a glass with ice cubes. They indulged me in doing shots of limoncello before leaving.
We headed to our friend Maia’s house. A thin, pretty layer of snow had settled on the houses, trees, and street lamps in her neighbourhood. We drank some more and listened to music, deep conversations emerging as they do in a roomful of introspective, therapy-loving drunk women. It’s not till 11:30 that we realized we’d lost track of time and needed to rush to where we planned to be at midnight. Maia booked it to the Ace Hotel and the rest of us headed to Katie’s brother Graeme’s place.
I was adamant that we needed to be in a location by midnight so we didn’t miss the countdown, but the Uber was stuck in traffic as the streets filled up for the night. I watched my phone anxiously as the time ticked by. 11:43, 11:48, 11:55. Finally, at 11:57 PM we jumped out of the car and unlocked Graeme’s building door with a hidden key as per his instructions. “We’re not gonna make it,” someone behind me said desperately, and without turning around I barked “Don’t say that!” As we were running up three flights of stairs I could hear everyone in Graeme’s apartment doing the countdown. 7… 6… 5…
We burst through the door with three seconds left, just enough time for me to throw my arms up in the air and yell “Happy New Year!” to a room full of people I mostly don’t know, but they were all playing noisemakers and making out anyway. Katie gave me a big kiss on the cheek and I spent the next ten minutes recounting our movie-like entrance. I overheard a guy (obviously toasted) telling a girl (obviously bored) about “the best quarterback of all time” and they looked like this meme. We mingled just long enough for everyone to snag another drink and a couple of cheese cubes and headed out again.
We met Maia, whose group quickly abandoned a dead Ace Hotel, at Handlebar in Kensington where the DJ was spinning exclusively 60s and 70s soul vinyls. I couldn’t figure out how to dance to the music and just ended up swaying and doing the twist until I got into it. Everyone gave big hugs as our two parties merged and before I knew it I was doing another shot (tequila this time, blech). I danced so much and for so long that the sequins on my shirt cut up the skin on my left arm — something I didn’t notice till the next morning. We stayed on the dance floor till the last song played and the DJ handed out free posters. A guy tripping on mushrooms told my friends and me that he was watching us dance all night. Okay, dude.
Ally’s dad picked us up in his pajamas and drove us home. I managed to wash my face and brush my teeth despite feeling like I had jelly bones, finally falling asleep around 5 AM. When I got out of bed hours later, I carefully uncrumpled the DJ’s poster, stuck it up above my desk, and saved a playlist of 60s soul classics.
