Every January, the world turns into a self-improvement convention. Gyms overflow, kale gets a sales boost, and middle-aged men start wearing compression shirts they have no business wearing. It’s the season when everyone swears to become a better person. By Jan. 5, most of them are back to being themselves again, and usually relieved about it.

The trouble with New Year’s resolutions is that they require follow-through, and follow-through is the thing we least enjoy doing. We’re a nation that wants six-pack abs but not six a.m. alarms. We want enlightenment, but only if it comes with Wi-Fi.

Take the gym. Every year, the same crowd shows up, full of optimism and fresh sneakers. They treat the treadmill like a promise. By week two, they’re gone, leaving behind only a faint smell of regret and the occasional water bottle. The regulars don’t even make eye contact; they know the tourists won’t last.

A friend decided last year to “get in the best shape of his life.” This meant buying a gym membership, one pair of spandex shorts, and a juicer that sounded like a helicopter taking off. He lasted four days. The juicer’s still in the box. The gym key fob is now a paperweight. The only part of him that’s in great shape is his ability to rationalize.

“I’ll start again on Monday,” he says. Mondays have become mythical creatures for people like him. Every resolution lives there. Every diet, every budget, every plan to stop scrolling through social media. Monday is the landfill of good intentions.

I went to a gym once, back when I still believed in salvation through sweat. The machines looked like torture devices from a failed revolution. People ran nowhere with desperate faces, clinging to the illusion that they were escaping themselves. You can’t. You carry yourself like luggage.

Even the simplest resolutions collapse under the weight of human nature. Take “eat better.” That usually lasts until someone walks past a pizza place. One whiff of pepperoni and the human brain waves the white flag. I’ve seen people destroy a month’s worth of willpower with one slice, and then say, “Well, I already blew it,” and eat four more.

Then there are the people who vow to “be more positive.” They make it about two days before realizing optimism requires a stamina they don’t have. They smile through the first flat tire, the first late paycheck, the first child meltdown in the grocery store. But when they hit traffic on Friday, the new them dies in the carpool lane.

My neighbor tried journaling to “center herself.” She bought a leather notebook, scented candles, and a $40 pen that could sign peace treaties. Her first entry began, “Dear Me, this is a new chapter.” The second entry was a grocery list. By the third day, she’d forgotten where she left the journal.

That’s the thing about resolutions: they’re written by the person you want to be but lived by the person you are. The person you are hits snooze. The person you are wants dessert. The person you are still thinks yoga is stretching with a marketing team.

Every year, I make the same promise — to drink less soda. Every year, I fail before the ink dries. I’m not proud, but I’m awake. The last time I tried to quit, I replaced soda with green tea. That lasted about three mornings until I realized green tea tastes like boiled regret. I went crawling back to caffeine like an old flame.

There’s also the resolution to “be more organized.” That one sounds noble until you open the junk drawer. The junk drawer doesn’t care about your dreams. It’s the Bermuda Triangle of your home. I once tried to clean mine and found three batteries, a pack of matches, an expired coupon for Arby’s, and something that may have been alive at one point. I closed it and decided to let future generations deal with it.

Resolutions are a beautiful lie. They give us the illusion of control over our own chaos. We make them because hope is fun, and failure is familiar. Deep down, we know we’re not built for sustained self-discipline. If we were, the treadmill wouldn’t double as a coat rack by February.

But maybe that’s the charm of it. Every year, we fall for the same trick. Every year, we promise to reinvent ourselves, even though we know how it’ll end. It’s not stupidity. It’s optimism in its purest form. Humanity’s annual leap of faith, followed by a belly flop of reality.

So this year, I’m not making resolutions. I’m declaring intentions. Intentions are friendlier. They don’t judge. You can “intend” to eat better while holding a cheeseburger. You can “intend” to save money while buying concert tickets. Intentions keep us human–ambitious but not delusional.

Because the only real failure is believing you’re supposed to have it all figured out by Jan. 2. The rest is just exercise equipment waiting for its second life as a laundry rack.

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Sentinel reporter Brian Carson can be reached at bcarson@lewistownsentinel.com