I’m not sure how much I believe in New Year’s resolutions. I believe you change your life in every moment, with every unconscious decision, and waiting for a future date like the first of the year to instate a desired new habit can be the kind of hesitation that prevents lasting change.
But I’ve lived my life with many purity rules, which is what most New Year’s resolutions are, so I have experience with the subject. I think these rules can be effective as an exercise in discipline and a frame for lasting change. I’ve been vegetarian my whole life, which probably pushed me towards making more purity rules. Since I was a child I’ve declined meat to uphold the set of rules in which I was raised, and that made me better at making rules for myself.
I’ve had months where I resolved to not listen to recorded music. I’ve had weeks where I decided not to carry my keys in my pocket so I could feel lighter as I walked, and left my apartment door unlocked. I’ve had other weeks where I didn’t log on to social media, despite so much of my life being mediated by it. I look back on those periods fondly, even if I don’t follow the rules forever, and even if the rules don’t make sense. It’s nice to change and challenge yourself.
Sometimes I adopt a new purity rule at the start of the year because it’s fun to participate in the New Year’s ritual. Even though starting on January 1st is arbitrary, the narrative can help you follow through with your resolution. In January 2023 I resolved to go on a walk every day, trudging through the January cold of downtown Peoria, Illinois, forcing myself through the snowy winter because I thought walking made me think more clearly. In January 2024 I moved to New York City and told people I had no resolutions, because I was already changing so much of my life by moving to the city. But that’s sort of a purity rule too. I still to this day will not do drugs in New York City that I haven’t done elsewhere, with the same intention of holding the old version of myself intact.
One of my strongest-held purity rules, though, is that I don’t go inside Target. I’ve been avoiding the stores since 2018. It’s not an ethical objection to Target’s business—it’s an aesthetic one. Something about the brand stopped working for me and I couldn’t even consider going inside; the red paint thrown over a general-supply warehouse seemed disingenuous to me. Target sells nothing other stores don’t, so it’s very possible to not shop there. It’s just not always convenient.
My family shops at Target. When they go, I stand in the parking lot, next to the car, scrolling on my phone; if it’s cold I sit in the car. I like parking lots so it’s fine. Sometimes I sit on the big red concrete balls that Target puts outside. Last month, I was hanging with some friends from high school, and they wanted to go to Target. I didn’t want to have to explain that I follow a rule that says I couldn’t go in. Instead I said I had to make a phone call and sat outdoors on a big red ball by the sliding glass doors. I did have a call to make so it wasn’t entirely untrue.
