I don't do New Year's resolutions. I'm just too chicken. I mean, who wants to feel bad about themselves so soon into the new year just because they got overly ambitious while hungover (or still drunk)?
Nope, not me. But I did use this weekend to reconnect with the old me that had gotten left behind in all the frenzy of the move.
First, I went back to the gym. I found a gym in the centre of town, one of those gyms that is so expensive and luxurious you really do have to go (heck, sometimes you even want to, but mostly for the hammam). It was only after having done serious damage to my credit card that they told me towels were extra. Towels are extra?! Sigh... only in Switzerland.
Nevermind, I had a great 5km run on the treadmill, surrounded by the city's gorgeous young things. Damn, I forgot how great it felt to exercise! Sadly, this realization was followed 24 hours later by a similarly intense realization of how sore your muscles get after the first workout you've had in months.
The other good old habit I got back into? Writing. I have now officially started my next novel. But this time, I'm doing it all differently. Instead of starting with a full story (complete with a beginning, most of a middle, and an end that isn't one) I am starting with close to nothing. A character or two. A vivid scene I came up with one insomniac night a few weeks ago. God only knows how, or if, these things will come together to form a novel. At the very least though, I should have something resembling a short story.
Wait, so you think it sounds like I made resolutions? No, really. If you don't write it down, it doesn't count.
What do you mean I just wrote it down?