We’ve all heard about “Dry January,” where folks come down off the holiday binge and sober up for 30 days. I’ve always thought the whole concept was a bit weird and resulted in a lot of functional alcoholics building up pressure for 30 days, making the first of February a dumpster fire of boozy release. “Gosh, Beer World sure is crowded today. Oh, right. It’s Make-Up-For-Lost-Time-uary.” Full disclosure: I have participated in sober months in the past, but my alcohol intake has been slowly tapering off for most of the last decade. Maybe people like myself need to start something that’s kind of the opposite. More of a “bender-ary” or “inebr-ary." Actually, bad idea. Forget I mentioned that. Back to the point, the January blues aren’t about some seasonal hangover for me. It’s about opening my eyes and coming to terms with the amount of weight I gained from Thanksgiving through New Year’s Eve.

Now, I’m not one to overindulge (unless devouring an entire $20 cheese bag by oneself is considered overindulging. Damn you, Yuval!), but the holidays represent a time where my normal limits become a little less … limited. I may purchase salty snacks at the grocery store. For the guests, of course. I may stock all the ingredients for making cookies, because Christmas must have cookies. We’re not savages. I may even prepare foods I wouldn’t normally think of, simply because it’s the holidays. For example, the idea of baking some kind of treat in a pan would never happen outside of Q4, but every year we end up with a pile of lemon bars, gooey bars, strawberry oatmeal bars, and, well, you get the point. That’s how everyone celebrates, right? That’s what Jesus would have wanted, as far as I can tell. I think it’s John 6:35 that says “Then Jesus declared, 'I am the bread pudding of life.'” Truth! Actually, I may not have the exact quote but that’s the gist of it.

The whole season seems to revolve around food. There are specific foods that only exist that time of year as well, like fruitcakes, plum puddings, and holiday stollens. Personally, I hate fruitcakes and my wife’s plum puddings are one of the few downsides to our marriage. “Honey, have some of this dessert I made six weeks ago and left to ripen in the back of the coat closet.” On the plus side, I only deal with these boiled puddings during the last month of the year … and when it comes up in couples therapy. On the other hand, stollens are a dreamy delight that my aunt sends me each December, at which point we place it on the counter and pretend like we’re going to have the self-control to not gobble it up within a few hours of receiving it. Usually, we make it half a day before it’s gone and we’re on the website ordering another one, because that’s the reason for the season in my household.

The result of all this is that the holidays generally turn into a gluttonous rationalization-fest followed by a January filled with weeping and rending of clothing. I think it’s called "the season of giving" because it ends up giving me agita whenever I walk by the bathroom scale. Most years I solve this problem by hiding the scale under something heavy, but deep inside, I know that when the new year hits, the “bearer of bad weight news” comes back out and the wailing and gnashing of teeth will begin again. I feel like “rending clothing” and “gnashing teeth” sound super Bible-y so return fire in the War on Christmas.

Now it’s January and the scale is out in the open again, the sweets are all gone, and the front desk workers at the YMCA can’t hide their surprise at seeing me waddle across their threshold. You know you’re slacking off when the person at the counter of your gym greets you with, “Been a while." At this point they can’t be that shocked. There’s a reason all the cycle classes are packed for the first two weeks of a new year. By February, everyone has realized that cycling is really hard and probably not worth the effort, but for that brief time just after the New Year, the bike room at the Y is the most popular place in town. Not as popular as the Farmer’s Market, of course, but that’s obvious. The Farmer’s Market is the Taylor Swift of Kingston. Different league. Wait a second. If the Farmer’s Market is Taylor Swift, what would be Travis Kelce? The O+ Festival? If those two local events joined forces I might faint.

Isn’t it funny how all of the celebratory moments in our culture revolve around food? Xmas? Let’s get a giant ham and pick at it for days. Thanksgiving? Let’s get a giant bird and pick at it for days. Birthdays? Let’s get a giant cake and pick at it for days. The Super Bowl? Let’s get a giant platter of chicken wings, eat it all in one sitting, and be doubled over with severe gastrointestinal trauma for days. As a culture, we celebrate with food, and we haven’t shaken the privileged idea that more food equals better celebrations. But this year I’m going to break that cycle. To demonstrate this new relationship with food and celebration, I’m going to observe my wife’s January birthday in a more responsible way. No fancy restaurant. No moist, velvety cake. No expensive bottle of wine. No overindulgence of any kind. This year, we’ll have a nice salad and we’ll continue to have nothing but greens and raw vegetables for the foreseeable future. Maybe we can ease up around the beginning of May. Oh hey, I think that’s when my birthday is.