January 2nd, 11:15 AM
I stare at the empty pizza box on my desk like it’s evidence at a crime scene. Which it is. The crime: the brutal murder of my New Year’s resolution, which lasted approximately 47 hours before dying of natural causes. By natural causes, I mean I got hungry during my morning break and remembered that the little neighborhood joint called Domino’s delivers to the office.
The box is from Domino’s. Large pepperoni, extra cheese, stuffed crust. All of it consumed at 11:00 this morning while I pretended to read emails and watched a YouTube video titled “How to Build Muscle on a Clean Diet.” The algorithm really knows how to kick a man when he’s down.
My resolution, written on my phone’s Notes app at 11:58 PM on New Year’s Eve with the confidence of someone who’d taken their Ambien, was crystal clear: “Hit the gym every day. Meal prep. Get shredded. No more dad bod by summer.”
For context, I have two kids. They spend their summers at baseball tournaments. We are not on the beach weekly…and sadly, not even yearly. Plus, I am happily married…so what the h-e-double hockey sticks do I care what my body looks like. If she thinks I’m still a looker, I’m still a looker.
I made it until January 1st at 6:30 PM. I’d done pretty well, actually. Chicken and rice for lunch. Felt like my old days as an athlete. Then I made the fatal mistake of sitting down on the couch to “rest for a minute” after work before my evening workout. Three hours later, I woke up with the TV playing some documentary about sharks, a crick in my neck, and the sudden realization that the gym closes at 10 PM and it was 9:47.
“I’ll go tomorrow,” I told myself. “Tomorrow’s basically still the beginning of the year.”
Tomorrow came…that’s where we are-TODAY. I woke up at 7:55 AM because I’d stayed up until 2:00 AM watching the rest of the shark documentary. My gym bag was still by the door, mocking me. My meal prep containers were still in the Amazon cart, unpurchased. And my stomach was making sounds that the sad desk salad I’d brought was not going to satisfy.
That’s when I saw the Domino’s ad on Instagram during my “quick bathroom break.” You know the ones—they track your every move and know exactly when you’re vulnerable. “50% off when you order on the app.”
Twenty minutes later, I was eating pizza in my cubicle, the box strategically angled away from my monitor so it looked like I was having a normal, professional Friday morning. My coworker Wyatt walked by, saw the situation, and just nodded in solidarity. Pretty sure he had McDonald’s hidden in his desk drawer.
I would have felt worse about this, but my phone buzzed with the group chat. My best buddy Parker: “Bro, I was supposed to quit drinking soda during the week. Just cracked a Diet Coke. It’s Friday. I made it a day and a half. That’s gotta count for something.”
Then Wyatt: “Day 2 of waking up at 6 AM to be ‘productive.’ Just woke up at 10:00 a.m. Apparently, my body staged a coup.”
The floodgates opened. Artie had sworn to delete all his dating apps and “focus on himself.” He’d redownloaded Hinge within 36 hours because “just wanted to see if she responded.” (She didn’t.) Parker promised his wife he’d finally clean out the garage. He’d moved one box, found his old PlayStation 2, and spent five hours playing Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater instead.
Even my cousin Mikie texted separately: “Dad just asked if I’m still doing that ‘financial responsibility thing’ I talked about on New Year’s. You know, YESTERDAY! I just bought a $300 chef’s knife because some YouTube guy said it would change my life. I don’t even cook.”
I look at the pizza box again, half-hidden under a stack of reports I’m supposed to be reviewing. In my defense, I had every intention of hitting the gym today. I even brought my gym bag to work. That’s like 60% of the battle right there. But then I had to answer some emails, which turned into checking Reddit, which turned into a 45-minute deep dive into whether or not ancient Romans did cardio. (They mostly just conquered stuff, which is arguably a workout.)
The thing about New Year’s resolutions is they’re made by December You—a guy who’s ready for bed, feels invincible, and genuinely believes that January You will wake up one day and suddenly want to eat grilled chicken for every meal and enjoy burpees.
January You is tired. January You just wants to survive the inbox that exploded while you were out, and the fact that it’s dark when you leave for work and dark when you get home. January You doesn’t want to go to a gym full of other January Guys who are all secretly hoping everyone else quits so there’s more space by the squat rack.
I grab my notebook—yes, I own a notebook, I’m very serious about goals—and flip to January 1st. In decent handwriting: “This year I become the best version of myself. No excuses.”
January 2nd, I just scrawled underneath in barely legible writing: “Domino’s was 50% off. I’m not made of stone.”
I texted the group: “New resolution. We need something actually realistic.”
Parker replies instantly: “Resolve to go to the gym at least once this month. Just once. Low bar.”
“Still too high,” Wyatt responds. “I resolve to stop lying to myself about going to bed early.”
Artie: “I resolve to accept that I’m going to keep making the same mistakes and just be cool with it.”
Parker: “I resolve to finish the garage by 2026. Maybe.”
My cousin, Mikie: “I resolve to use the $300 knife at least once before it becomes a very expensive decorative item.”
I laugh, shove the pizza box into the trash can under my desk, and grab the protein bar I optimistically brought this morning. It tastes like cardboard and broken dreams, but it’s something.
Maybe the real resolution isn’t about transforming into some completely different dude. Maybe it’s about cutting yourself some slack and recognizing that you’re doing fine, even if “fine” means occasionally eating an entire pizza at your desk before noon on a Friday.
Or maybe I’m just making excuses.
Either way, I’ve got chicken in the fridge at home that I’m definitely going to cook tonight.
Tomorrow night.
We’ll see how I feel.
For now, I’ve got three hours until my next meeting and these reports aren’t going to read themselves. Or maybe they will if I stare at them long enough. That’s basically manifestation, right?
