Dry January is a self-serving masterclass in virtue signalling
‘I’m going to have a dry 2020,” declares a friend, with the pomp and bluster that some might use to say they’re tackling Mount Everest.
‘I’m going to have a dry 2020,” declares a friend, with the pomp and bluster that some might use to say they’re tackling Mount Everest.
“Wow, that’s impressive,” I reply. “What about that wedding in Italy you’re going to in April? You’ll be sober at that?”
She thinks for a second. “Well, not that, but for the rest of the year.”
Please log in or register with Independent.ie for free access to this article.
Log In
New to Independent.ie? Create an account
“Okay. And your 40th? Wow, that’ll be interesting.”
“Well, not that weekend… And maybe not for your birthday. Or my boyfriend’s birthday. BUT FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR.”
She gulps down her Old Fashioned like it’s about to be taken away from her. I can already tell it’s going to be a long 12 months.
Honestly, though, why bother making such a fuss? She’d be better off keeping her intentions to herself. I can already foretell how this will go down. My friend will declare her Dry 2020 intentions to anyone who’ll listen.
It’s a wobbly enough perch to put yourself on. It’s one, probably, that people will have no end of fun attempting to unseat her from. She’d honestly be better off saying nothing, ordering a Heineken Zero, and drinking it without expecting a round of applause.
But subtlety and discretion is not the way of those who embark on Dry January, and I don’t need to look too far to prove this particular point.
Dry January started off as a public health campaign, but has now become one performative pain in the arse, usually played out on social media. Instead of just getting on with it, some Dry Januarians take to Facebook or Twitter to announce their intentions to wake up sober for 31 days, and expect a public clap on the back for it.
I’m not buying Dry January. It’s a self-serving exercise; a masterclass in virtue signalling.
It’s a gesture that also usually comes with a shaking of a virtual charity tin. Which is all very well and good, but people announce their intentions to pass on G&T like they’re walking the Great Wall Of China to tackle climate change or doing a triathlon to save the whales.
Don’t make out that giving up alcohol is some mammoth sacrifice that you’re doing for the kiddies: it’s a post-Christmas health kick, and often not much more than that.
If you want to give up alcohol or donate to charity, crack on. It’s a lot more impressive when you do it and say nothing.
Don’t announce on social media that you’re now 23 days off the Bulmers as though you’re doing a stretch in the clink. Don’t sit stoically nursing a Ballygowan in the pub like you’re making a massive sacrifice for mankind. Don’t make out that you’re Mother Teresa, when you’re really giving up beer to shift the 10 pounds that found their way to your saddlebags/tummy/hips over Christmas.
Come to think of it, it’s not just Dry January that sticks in my craw: it’s now the entire performance involved in taking on any New Year resolution.
January is packed to the rafters with people on very loud crusades, from going vegan to hitting the HIIT workout.
I totally get it: people are revved up and enthusiastic in the first few days of anything, and sometimes it helps with motivation to be chivvied along by pals.
But genuinely, do people have to be so damned loud about it? If you’re not grandly asking for the Paleo menu or arriving to my house with your own vegan tea bag, are you really doing New Year like a proper adult at all?
Because when you do, you’re making me feel bad about my resolution, which is… well, aiming to clean the bathroom more than once a fortnight (good and realistic, you see).
I’m not against New Year resolutions per se: it’s a great time of year to do a lifestyle inventory, take a significant breather, and reboot again, hopefully on a different, possibly more positive path.
The problem is that 88pc of people fail in keeping their New Year resolutions, and according to research most have fallen off the wagon by January 17.
Perhaps not having an actual wagon to fall off with is the trick. Instead of publicly announcing your new diet, or your sober lifestyle, take it decision by decision, without telling anyone what you’re at.
Choose the granola over the fry-up for breakfast. Buy a salad over a sandwich on your lunch break. In the toss-up over a post-work glass of wine and a slimline G&T, just order the latter. No running commentary on your great sacrifices is needed.
Make each decision on a moment-by-moment basis, and next thing you know you’ve enjoyed a healthy day, then a healthy week, then a healthy month.
It’s not a question of a ‘good’ decision over ‘bad’ (once you start playing that game with yourself, you’re wandering into a whole new arena of difficulty).
Waiting for applause for doing it only causes a complication; psychologically, you’ve planted the idea for failure within yourself before you’ve even gotten off the blocks.
Eat A or B; drink X or Y. It really is as simple and boring as that. All the more reason to keep the rest of us out of it.
Source: Read Full Article