This month, anybody starting a sentence with these words will be met with me making the ‘Tzp!’ noise, while simultaneously pushing my index finger against the lips (not in the sexy way) and making the international signal for ‘Zip it’ with the other hand. You know the one – the one with the zip.
If there is one thing I will not tolerate, it’s this insistence that a year – any year – has to be MY YEAR. Like I’m going to win an Oscar or something.
After I had a terrible year in 2016, people said, ‘Don’t worry, 2017 WILL BE YOUR YEAR.’ And then 2017 was terrible too, and everybody said, ‘Don’t worry, 2018 WILL BE YOUR YEAR.’ And then that was awful too, so now I have banned people in my life from saying it. The big jinxies.
We humans are such vulnerable little spots on this tiny Earth spinning around in an infinite universe that we love to believe in this dream that we can control whether or not we are going to have good years simply by deciding so in January. This is why we go crazy for horoscopes around now. (I’m a Scorpio, so I’m quite cynical.)
Of course, there are certain things we can do to ensure the year is ‘good’ to some extent. We can look both ways before we cross the road, we can eat our veg, floss our teeth, and steer clear of crystal meth. We can have a positive mental attitude and look on the bright side and apply for new jobs and go to the gym and take vitamins and not start fights with racoons and spread a little joy by smiling.
But we can’t stop ourselves, for example, getting hit by lightning. We can’t stop people around us getting ill, or falling down manholes, or choking on spaghetti. That is something that can ruin your year, and no amount of ‘This is gonna be YOUR YEAR, kiddo’ is going to stop rogue murderous pasta spoiling things.
There is something about this time of year that makes us want to control our destinies in a way we never do the rest of the year. So just don’t say it to me. But still, I hope 2019 is your year…
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