I freely admit I’ve never been a joiner. When I was younger, this meant no Brownies or pony club. Nowadays, it means a severe reaction against things like Dry January or Veganuary.
I have absolutely nothing against the sentiment of such events, it’s just that I find myself unwilling to join in.
Apart from my pathological fear of joining in, I was also away on holiday for a week in January and, as my regular reader will remember, we had our work cut out for us keeping up with the older generation in terms of drinking.
We gave it our best shot obviously.
Apart from that, I also find it hard to fathom why anyone would want to make January even more miserable than it already is.
February is far better for good intentions as far as I’m concerned, when spring is around the corner and the festive excesses have vanished into the distance, leaving a permanent reminder only for those foolish enough to look in a mirror.
But even if I do decide on an abstemious February, I will definitely be doing so alone.
Several well-meaning friends have tried extolling the virtue of slimming clubs to me recently, as I’ve bemoaned the fact many pairs of jeans have shrunk lately.
“It’s brilliant, you get loads of support and encouragement and it’s a great laugh.”
I have had similar recommendations regarding various dance-related exercise classes.
Unfortunately, I know from bitter experience that when I’m faced with a room full of people gamely joining in, my cringe radar reaches epic proportions and I find myself physically frozen to the spot.
How to explain to these well-meaning friends that the thought of joining any sort of club brings me out in a cold sweat?
All I know is, this inability to join in has not receded since childhood and even if I had overcome my challenges by now, I am not sure the Tufty Club still exists so there is very little to aim for.
Solitary power walks and reduced portions for me. Just me.