Resolutions are as overrated as the vehicle (see: New Years Eve) that incites them. Has anyone in the history of pacts-made-with-self actually started to use the gym more regularly, or put aside tax money, or vowed to quit drinking (and subsequently drunk texting) for any period that extends beyond, I don’t know, January 6th, insert new year here? If Man Repeller has taught me anything, it is that setting short-term goals, which amount to very small victories is a far more constructive formula than conjuring up the big ass ones that often amount to sweeping disappointment.
Consolidate those aspirations, people. My personal resolution for January 2013 is to defeat my Trichotillomania and stop picking my damn eyebrows–I don’t have co-workers as gracious as Hannah’s to pencil in thicker ones. The residual days of 2012 already suggest I’m on the road to recovery so why don’t you start with something a bit more trivial and let that lend itself to executing the more dynamic resolutions on your check list (mine include tree planting).
Now, l want to re-open the conversation about reflection. Not necessarily to divulge more personal information about my relationships or even beg that you do the same, but there’s something to be said about the nebulous nature of what The Future always holds and in conjunction with that, the endearing tangibility of what’s behind us. 2012 was fascinating at best–if not because female humanity lost its composure over Isabel Marant’s skater sneaker cum absurdly expensive fashion shoe than certainly because we elected a new (old) president!
The year deserves a recap of its profound highs, shameful lows, and though I’m keeping sexual affairs off of this 12 Best of ’12 list, I will not refrain from saying that if 2011 was all about naughty politicians, 2012 belonged to the U.S. Military.
Starting with livestock, I give you the It-Animal of 2012, which are Panda bears. I’ll offer this one to Rob Pruitt, Jimmy Choo and one particular suit of the Au Jour le Jour variety that spawned an entire revolution (consisting at least of myself?) celebrating the amicable endangered species, who could probably use a lesson in black eyeshadow/pencil application.
It-Food: Kale in all its forms. It’s always rather bewildering when foods act like fashion statements and come “in” or go “out” of style but my supposition on kale’s meteoric rise to fame rests in its potent anti-cancer properties and the advent of green juices in place of alcoholic libations. New York is becoming LA and I’m not sure I like it.
Best book: Fifty Shades of Grey. Just kidding, guys. I’m totally kidding. This isn’t April Fools but that shit sold well, which has likely prompted Betty Friedan to roll over in her grave and try as she might, force female humanity to reread The Feminine Mystique. Ultimate deduction: American women are a profoundly horny bunch of women.
Most Aggressive Digital Deal: Facebook buys Instagram for One Billion Dollars, (said in the voice of Dr. Evil.) At the risk of sounding ignorant, I will refrain from saying much other than: you’re welcome from all of us for making you rich, photo sharing app.
Breakthrough Couple of The Year: Kimye. Man friends are the new stylists and it’s in due part thanks to a certain Yeezy. When he and Kim Kardashian finally stopped playing the merry-go-round, her style saw a dramatic departure from Herve Leger to the more Kanye-centric Givenchy, Maison Martin Margiela, heck, she’s even sausaged her legs into Isabel Marant pants. We wait in anticipation while he prepares her full leather get up–kilt et al. But this begs the question, what happens to the nature of Man Repelling if Kim is feeding into it? Does the future hold a bevy of rebellious tight black dresses for us?
Most committed Repeller: Bad Gal Riri–any woman layering fatigue with a Santa hat and emblazoning a marijuana leaf across her ass cheek for the sake of a hash tag, (#thuglife), deserves this spot. Also, she and Chris Brown are still boys, which should really make you wonder, if she can forgive and forget–should we?
Hippest libation: Coconut water–after green juices, before tequila. Nay, with tequila.
Sexual taboo of the year: Incest (see: Boardwalk Empire and the implication of a previous season’s Dexter.) I’ve also got a friend who recently hypothesized that cohabitation is kind of like incest. In most instances, the only men we are innately accustomed to living with are our fathers and brothers–and then we move in with our significant others and over time become as comfortable under the new dwelling circumstances as we were in our more primitive ones. Just like that, she suggests, the comfort blankets our morale and we’re having sex with our brothers. Mull that over, I’m still fuzzy on it.
Worst name of the year: Between the wildly detrimental natural disaster that hit the east coast in October and this month’s heart-wrenching Connecticut shooting at Sandy Hook elementary school–the likelihood of acceptance of a newborn called Stalin vs. one called Sandy in the previous three months is uncannily high.
Child Star: This one is a toss up between Jay-Z and Beyonce’s Blue Ivy, who so inconspicuously came into the world to an entire hospital floor devoted to the well being of her ripe existence and a series of trademarks pending on the nature of her ineffable name, and Honey Boo Boo, who was able to secure herself a Wikipedia page before I could.
Best Television Show (according to a populace comprised of upper/middle class white people only): Homeland. But I don’t watch it (I’m a conspiracy theorist by nature), so I’ll allow you to suggest why.
Most over-saturated occupation: Blogging. Indeed, everyone and their mother started a blog in 2012, bastardizing whatever dreams we may have had of plausibly and proudly dubbing ourselves bloggers. I do believe in matters of the fabricated occupation, “bloggers” are the new “stylists.”
An added bonus to help ring in 2013: The It-Genital of 2012 was indubitably the vagina. And why? Because, well, Lena Dunham has one.
Now taking 2013 projections, go.