Ian Tasman It’s that time of year when people take stock, be it in the form of a year-end bonus for the lucky ones or, for the others, just a general look at their mental and physical health. Amazingly, another year has come to an end, and as we slowly move from the office to the beach certain questions raise their ugly heads again. What have you achieved this year? How many of those New Year’s resolutions that you proudly put to paper back in January have you actually accomplished?
As with most people, it seems, my list somehow went missing early in February. It’s a great relief though when that happens because it’s like a huge weight off your shoulders and you can revert to your comfortable existence.
But as we grow older it appears that our consciences grow bigger almost at the same rate as our responsibilities and our waistlines, which all of a sudden resemble that continental pillow we’ve become accustomed to greeting every night at Club Duvet. In addition to running out of notches on your belt, you go in search of a much bigger facecloth because literally overnight the size of your forehead has gone from medium to extra large. It now becomes evident that the term mid-life crisis has meaning and you wonder at what age you should apply for serious therapy or intervention. But back to your conscience, which again starts to grind away at you for not living up to your true potential. Instead of focusing on your Sumo wrestler eating habits or your geriatric level of fitness, your mind moves to your choice of career. Even though you have 10 or 15 years of solid working experience in your current field you’ve always wondered whether you took the right path. You look around at some of your peers, those that aren’t in Melbourne or Toronto, and imagine how you would have handled the bench or the balance sheet. You move on to thoughts of how hard you’ve actually worked through the year. Memories come flooding through of long lunches, several rounds of golf and the odd midweek afternoon siesta. The guilt erupts in a not too dissimilar fashion to that of being caught grabbing that last chocolate from the pantry or, even worse, that last piece of pizza from your five-year-old son’s plate.
But guilt soon becomes anger because now you remember that there was no recognition for the early mornings or the late nights or the hours you spent working on weekends. So with a sigh of relief you pat yourself on the back with the confirmation that you’ve done a hell of a job. There’s no doubt that you’ve given more than your pound of flesh. Having completed your one-year review process with a certain level of contentment you sit back and think. Your mind moves into overdrive as different strategies for self-improvement come rushing in, all lining up for the year ahead. It’s strange, though, because there’s a definite feeling of dj vu. Slow down, you remind yourself, there’s no need for an impulsive approach, but just the thought of having some kind of work in progress before you put your feet up under the willows is almost enough reward. It all seems so easy, it’s very clear, already there’s a feasible plan of attack. Maintaining your momentum, you outline your thoughts. Free rein only as far as December 31. No, January 2. And then with real focus, dedication and commitment you prepare for battle again. But this time it will be different this time it’s for real, no weak links, no backing down. You know the terrain, you’ve been there before. Only the fittest survive. The cholesterol level needs quite a bit of work, down to single figures at least, and exercise. No, not gym, but maybe medium-pacers to Jess off a short run-up in the garden, that hula-hoop thing with Samantha and, on alternate days, maybe even a bit of skipping. To eat nothing fried, only fish, chicken and vegetables. Everything in moderation, the experts say. On the greens, I agree. So, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, promise yourself that 2002 will be your best year yet. Set yourself reasonable and achievable goals at home, at work and at play and commit yourself to trying something new. Most importantly, smile and have fun it somehow always makes a difference. Ian Tasman is sales and marketing director of the Mail & Guardian