I don’t want to alarm anyone on this, the 95th day of January, but I have just realised that there are still almost two weeks before February starts. I don’t know about you, but the January 2025 time loop has broken me: my blood has become toxic ectoplasm and my bones are jelly worms. I don’t so much live the 43 minutes of daylight we get in North Yorkshire as sullenly, listlessly exist through them. This morning, putting on leggings to go to the gym defeated me, so I just lay on the bathroom floor instead.
This is not our first January rodeo – we have survived before; we will survive again. Last year, some idiot even tried to claim January was “sort of great” (yes, that idiot was me). But the coping strategies I have found online all seem rather worthy, rather preachy, rather “hello birds, hello sky”. So to expiate for last year’s idiocy, I have devised some better survival tips, none of which involve “spending time in nature”, “gentle stretching” or “nourishing soup”.
Get a Janettone
That’s a January panettone, keep up. Nothing perks up the seasonally depressed hunter-gatherer like bargain high-end foods, so scour retailers for the last dregs of enriched Christmas breads. What’s nice about panettone is how pillowy soft it is – you can rest your head on one and nibble it at the same time. If you’re feeling the post-Christmas, pre-tax pinch, I reckon some people online might pay to watch that; just a thought.
Try an online subculture
Not for ever, but why not dip your toe in something highly specific in the manner of a Spotify wrapped category? Maybe this week you could be an absurdly expensive watch guy, or a radical feminist pageant queen, or a fairy erotica person or a canine astrologer. It’s like an identity holiday.
Develop a historical ailment
No need to put on the teeny hoarse voice that fools no one when you call in sick with melancholy, scrofula or an excess of bilious humour. HR want a medical certificate? Speak to my blood-letter.
Consider a cape
I bet there’s something in your home (rug, blanket, dog bed) you could repurpose to make a spectacular cape. My matted, crumb-infested furry throw transforms my January languishing from pathetic to powerfully primeval: my chickens scatter in terror; the DPD guy gives me a wide berth. Wear it everywhere – by which I mean, in bed, on the sofa, face down on the floor, when scuttling out to collect your takeaway, or shaking your fist and remonstrating with the sky.
Go hard (back)
Acquire a heavy, serious hardback. You won’t read it, but believing you might does wonders for your self-esteem. There are other benefits: the heft of it on your chest has the same comforting, calming effect as a weighted blanket, it provides a moderate resistance workout for your arms and doubles as a convenient laptop tray as you enter your fifth hour of blankly staring at one of the more esoteric offshoots of the Real Housewives multiverse.
Commit to convalescence
Screw your circadian rhythms and retire to bed in the manner of a Victorian invalid. If anyone asks, tell them you are “convalescing”. What from? None of their business. From their intrusive questions, for a start.
Bribes
In a moment of treat-culture inspiration, I fashioned a DIY “Janvent calendar” last week. It’s nothing fancy: I just bought a month’s worth of chocolates and I’m eating one the first time the words “I hate everything” cross my lips on any given day (rarely later than 9.30am). Is there an argument that this reinforces my seasonal negativity by rewarding it? Not one I want to hear, no.
Explore folklore
Ancient folklore understood how dreadful winter was and met it with dressing up, violence, magic, shouting and alcohol. It had the right idea. “When was the last time you let yourself be feral, unbound, god-touched?” asked @Romania – yes, the country – on Instagram recently, describing the alarming-looking Moldavian Dance of the Bear festival. When indeed?
Craft a mission statement
Set your intentions for the year: maybe “feral, unbound, god-touched” could be your new “very demure, very mindful”? Not me: I’m workshopping something around “Regrettably, no.” Start as you mean to go on.
