<p>Every January 1, I wake up feeling reborn. Not spiritually. That would require a moral upgrade, but behaviourally. This, I declare, is the year I break up with sweets, fried food, and impulsive online shopping. I make this proclamation with the gravity of a national oath: loud, sincere, and largely unattainable.</p>.<p>By midnight, I expect temptation to have taken the hint and quietly exited my life. It hasn’t.</p>.<p>I treat January 1 like a psychological factory reset. If the calendar can turn over, surely my willpower can auto-refresh. I expect self-control to arrive pre-installed, like a mandatory software update. But by January 5, negotiations begin in earnest: one sweet doesn’t count; fried food is fine if “air-fried”; and online shopping is harmless if “for productivity”.</p>.Heritage city Mysuru gears up to usher in the new year.<p>By January 20, I’m once again in a fully committed relationship with sugar, oil, and delivery tracking. What amazes me is my sincerity. Every December 31, I genuinely believe I am done. I look at <em>laddoos</em> with disdain, mute Swiggy notifications, and even uninstall shopping apps to assert dominance over capitalism only to reinstall them a week later “just to browse”.</p>.<p>My conviction is touching, built entirely on hope and denial. The real problem is not craving; it is choreography. I want transformation to happen automatically while I observe passively from the couch. Sugar isn't concerned about symbolism. Oil doesn’t fear New Year’s speeches. And e-commerce, especially at 11:47 pm, has never respected self-control.</p>.<p>January is especially cruel. It is cold, humourless, and filled with people pretending diet food is enjoyable. Every gym looks like a refugee camp of repentance. Social media is flooded with smoothie bowls that taste like regret. And the same apps that ruined my November now offer “New Year Detox Deals”.</p>.<p>I am not cultivating discipline; I am fighting a three-front war against dopamine. Then comes perfection paralysis. No sweets. No fried food. No impulsive shopping. These are not resolutions; they are ultimatums. And though the first failure feels fatal, one <em>gulab jamun</em> at a cousin’s wedding, and suddenly the moral floodgates open. “What’s one more?” I reason while ordering another box and, out of nowhere, clicking “Place Order” on e-commerce apps for running shoes as compensation.</p>.<p>It is a magnificent cycle of sin and self‑justification: sugar for regret and retail for redemption. Eventually, I have learnt that January 1 is not a reset button. It is a mirror showing me how much I crave transformation without inconvenience. Still, I will press the imaginary button again, because illusions die hard, and cashback dies harder. And patience, unlike smartphones, never goes on sale.</p>.<p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.<br></em></p>
<p>Every January 1, I wake up feeling reborn. Not spiritually. That would require a moral upgrade, but behaviourally. This, I declare, is the year I break up with sweets, fried food, and impulsive online shopping. I make this proclamation with the gravity of a national oath: loud, sincere, and largely unattainable.</p>.<p>By midnight, I expect temptation to have taken the hint and quietly exited my life. It hasn’t.</p>.<p>I treat January 1 like a psychological factory reset. If the calendar can turn over, surely my willpower can auto-refresh. I expect self-control to arrive pre-installed, like a mandatory software update. But by January 5, negotiations begin in earnest: one sweet doesn’t count; fried food is fine if “air-fried”; and online shopping is harmless if “for productivity”.</p>.Heritage city Mysuru gears up to usher in the new year.<p>By January 20, I’m once again in a fully committed relationship with sugar, oil, and delivery tracking. What amazes me is my sincerity. Every December 31, I genuinely believe I am done. I look at <em>laddoos</em> with disdain, mute Swiggy notifications, and even uninstall shopping apps to assert dominance over capitalism only to reinstall them a week later “just to browse”.</p>.<p>My conviction is touching, built entirely on hope and denial. The real problem is not craving; it is choreography. I want transformation to happen automatically while I observe passively from the couch. Sugar isn't concerned about symbolism. Oil doesn’t fear New Year’s speeches. And e-commerce, especially at 11:47 pm, has never respected self-control.</p>.<p>January is especially cruel. It is cold, humourless, and filled with people pretending diet food is enjoyable. Every gym looks like a refugee camp of repentance. Social media is flooded with smoothie bowls that taste like regret. And the same apps that ruined my November now offer “New Year Detox Deals”.</p>.<p>I am not cultivating discipline; I am fighting a three-front war against dopamine. Then comes perfection paralysis. No sweets. No fried food. No impulsive shopping. These are not resolutions; they are ultimatums. And though the first failure feels fatal, one <em>gulab jamun</em> at a cousin’s wedding, and suddenly the moral floodgates open. “What’s one more?” I reason while ordering another box and, out of nowhere, clicking “Place Order” on e-commerce apps for running shoes as compensation.</p>.<p>It is a magnificent cycle of sin and self‑justification: sugar for regret and retail for redemption. Eventually, I have learnt that January 1 is not a reset button. It is a mirror showing me how much I crave transformation without inconvenience. Still, I will press the imaginary button again, because illusions die hard, and cashback dies harder. And patience, unlike smartphones, never goes on sale.</p>.<p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.<br></em></p>
