As Stoptober kicks off, here's a guide to the things we can't bear to give up
Well, we’ve come out the other side of Scroll Free September with all its digital-detox righteousness, and here we are in Stoptober, when giving up smoking takes centre stage. Let’s face it, Dry January is just around the corner. Failing that, Veganuary. So that’s fun.
Obviously there is nothing good about smoking. But the rest of it? We just don’t know if we can cleave to the culture of self-denial, where giving things up for a month is supposed to press some kind of spiritual and physical reset, largely because… it doesn’t. This is why diets never work.
So, here are some other things that we are not giving up. Because they make us who we are.
Annabel is not giving up:
I just need all of the awake with none of the heart attack. The midway between corpse and fiend.
Putting off the dentist.
I’m too poor and too scared and that’s not changing any time soon. The hygienist’s polishing tools, I can handle. The dentist’s drills, I cannot. #toothlesscrone
Obsessing.
About the linen on my bed. Tidy bed, tidy mind. Kinda.
Heels.
They make me walk very slowly, give me blisters and shorten my temper. But if I give up on heels, I’ll be giving up on pizzazz. And when your spirit animal is Miss Piggy, that is not possible.
Exercising on injury.
The Achilles situation is not pretty. It’s limpy. Ouchy. But if I want to eat I need to jump around.
Impatience.
It makes me extremely effective. Rousing. Some even mistake it for dynamism. Not many. But some.
Road rage.
I’m not attacking anyone with lead piping. I’m exercising my right to swear effusively. With the window up.
Hope that I’ll sleep for eight hours. What is life without hope? Ahahahaha.
Bagging the front seat.
Sorry, but I don’t like sitting in the back of the car. It makes me sick and claustrophobic.
Anxiety.
It means I’m highly attuned to the bat squeaks of people’s moods. And I never run out of loo paper or Lenor.
Not going to the cinema.
I may miss out on cultural happenings, but I also miss out on a situation where I always need to pee in the middle and where the loos are soundproofed and murdery.
Emilie is not giving up:
Biscuits.
I do not know how many biscuits is too many. Three/four/a packet?
Lying about how much time I spend on Instagram.
‘Of course I was listening. No, I was absolutely not on Instagram while you were talking. I was just texting my mother/emailing an important work contact/writing my will.’
Brushing my teeth 25 times a day.
Even though my hygienist has told me to calm down. Makes me feel cleeaaann.
Chips.
Steak and chips. Salad and chips. Sushi and chips. Soup and chips. Chips and chips. And no, you cannot share.
Getting more tattoos.
Getting more tattoos.
Sorry, Mum.
Hope that I will exercise more.
It’s always a possibility. Maybe a bicycle or even just a really gentle class. Hell, I’ve been to one yoga class this year, which is already 100 per cent up on last year.
Small print.
Yes, I should probably up the font size on my Kindle. And make the text on my phone bigger so I can see better/something. But I will not be defeated.
Worrying.
Maybe one day I will ascend to a higher plane. Until then my worries keep me a) considerate, and b) alive.
Drinking tea.
Tea is fine, you say. Better than coffee. Or vodka. But I drink 15 cups a day.
Trying not to drive.
Not to reverse, or parallel park. Avoiding underground car parks, dodging motorways. Pretending I like walking/trains/the rain to avoid manning a vehicle. Driving is scary.
I’m Absolutely Fine! A Manual For Imperfect Women, by The Midults, is out now (Cassell, £16.99); themidult.com
