Resolutions? I’ve broken a few. This year I’m going a different way

Growing up in a Tassie hotel motel, my New Year’s Eve had a set rhythm. During the day my brother and I would fold linen napkins into crowns for the dining room, our parents whirling past as they fine-tuned the kitchen, bar, reception for the night ahead.

The band hired from the big smoke in Hobart or Launceston for a cabaret would arrive, often in a panel van. Would climb out in a cloud of sophistication and Peter Stuyvesant. Once they’d set up on the stage next to the dance floor, me and Sammy and our sisters would offer them dinks on our Honda 50s on the oval.

My annual resolutions are usually to “stop buying stupid clothes” or “break sugar’s stranglehold”. Last year I pledged to get a tattoo.Credit: Susana Ram

I’d fang around, a random bass player gripping my Crystal Cylinders windcheater as I kicked her up into third and drove through ditches to scare the passenger.

Then we’d get among it with a packed house of holidaymakers for whom staying at our east coast joint was an annual tradition. During the second set, the band played Sweet Caroline and the floor was cleared so Mum and Dad could down tools and dance together.

Midnight, everyone swayed and sang in a giant circle to Auld Lang Syne. Arms crossed and holding hands with a stranger, I’d be looking to the future already.

Thinking about how cold the pool would be tomorrow. Worried I’d get through my Christmas gift Malory Towers box set in under a week. Making a mental note to run a daily check on both the Cherry Ripe supply in reception and the Pacific Ocean horizon for a tidal wave.

Wanting Scott Bailey, ensconced for a fortnight in rooms 15 and 16 with his family including future TV weatherman Tim, to say he’d write to me at the end of summer. Hoping I’d be discovered kicking around in a two-horse town and asked to model for Dolly magazine.

Decades of New Year’s Eves have passed since then, a handful of them fabulous, some lonely, three marked by the last heavy days of pregnancy. All have involved making a plan for the next 12 months, even if it was as sketchy as “stop buying stupid clothes” or “break sugar’s stranglehold”.

Confession: my main resolutions for 2024 were to get a tattoo, foster a child. I failed with both, proving goals set in a margarita haze or last-minute panic may remain elusive. Still, lots of us do it: a new survey shows 74 per cent of Australians — 15.5 million people — have set a 2025 New Year’s resolution.

Women (80 per cent) are more likely than men (69 per cent) to do it. And only 55 per cent of Baby Boomers have set a resolution compared to 91 per cent of Gen Z and 82 per cent of Millennials. Diet and exercise-related goals top lists, followed by rest and leisure. Yes, nothing shocking.

Mine? I think I’ve settled on giving up shopping and taking up appreciation. As loathsome and self-helpish as that sound.

This year was a lot at our place. I rebounded from harshly honest feedback to write a book about really private stuff. Our beautiful warrior groodle Maggie went to sleep, a loss that still unhinges me. My husband saved our marriage and his life, his courage unfolding a new corner of my dinged-up heart.

There were moments it felt like everything was cracking open. That thing about cracks letting in the light? Mostly a crock. Cracks just cause cracks.

Next year, I’m going to be over bracing for impact. I want a softer landing. My marriage is still tender as a fading bruise. It’s made me skittish. Pushed me occasionally into dreaded martyr territory.

Enter that appreciation thing. Getting it softens resentments. Giving it shifts focus from what’s missing to what’s already there. It’s fabulous and I’m going to be giving and wanting it in giant doses. I also want to learn to take better selfies and play the Rocky theme on piano.

And if anyone’s having a cabaret on New Year’s Eve, I’m so there. I promise to say and mean that it’s one of the best starts to a year since the late 1970s.

Kate Halfpenny is the founder of Bad Mother Media and a regular columnist.

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