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There’s nothing original about becoming introspective this time of year. For about a week, we’re all prepared to scale mountains of personal truth and finally obey the Nietzschean dictate to become who we are. In the restraint and relative sobriety that follow in the wake of holiday bacchanalia, we’re ready—yep, really ready this time—to become vegans, yogis, patient and attentive partners, and speakers of conversant French. We’re ready to embrace the nonsmoking, trans-fat-avoiding teetotaler inside of us who wakes before dawn, always takes the stairs, and does not know anything about the lives of Bravo’s real housewives. But after a few days—or in some cases, hours—we inevitably tumble down the mountain of personal truth into the valley of daily reality, becoming, once again, the same person we’ve always been.
