Should auld acquaintance be forgot…
New Years’ resolutions are funny things. You make them, usually break them, and then make the same resolutions again 12 months later. Some are super easy to stick to, others seem simple but prove completely impractical. And then there are the ones that sound impossible when you voice them, yet somehow come to fruition.
Mine tend to follow a pattern. Lose weight (thank you, Christmas cheer), save money (thank you, Sephora), and above all, make more inroads in my career (which actually happened this time around). However, this year I’m going to refine the list. I’m going to add a goal for 2016, a genuine, believable, achievable aim.
I think it’s an excellent aim in the name of good health, both physical and psychological. It’s not meditation, or exercise, or trekking through some Godforsaken wilderness in the name of mindfulness. It’s not being nicer to people, or paying it forward (although that wouldn’t do me any harm either). This particular goal is far more, erm, physical.
I’ll just up and say it. In 2016, my New Year’s resolution is to have more sex.
I love sex. Like, really love it. It always puzzles and irritates me when people say men want sex more than women, because if anyone on this planet wants sex more than I do it’s a wonder people ever leave the house. I’ve had years where I’ve pretty much lived and breathed coitus. Whether elicit liaisons, friends with benefits, or just a whole host of good ol’ fashioned one night stands, I did the horizontal tango so many times I almost changed it to the rumba.
But not so in 2015. Or in 2014, for that matter. The last couple of years have been so devoid of sex there was actually a point last November where I thought my hymen had grown back. Whether because I’ve been super busy, or just not seizing opportunities like I used to, my bed has been as empty as a sale rack at Zara. Aside from a few casual encounters, I’ve actually had to go to the gym to get my cardio fix (pigs are flying).
You might ask me why the hell I would put myself through this much anxiety over a little thing like sex. After all, aren’t we rallying against the idea of our self-worth being tied up with our sexual prowess? Yes, regular sex is great, but you can still be a valuable contributor to society if you’re not having it. You might even be thinking how entirely immature I am for even contemplating this. How lacking in self control I am. That perhaps I should get a hobby. Or a cat.
Here’s the thing; I’m a very sexual person. I talk about it unashamedly, I’m not afraid of a one night wonder, and the amount of innuendo-loaded jokes permeating my every conversation surprises even me. Hell, my fave color is red, and according to a little thing called color psychology, this means I need a lot of sex. Therefore, not having sex on the reg could actually be psychologically damaging (at least that’s what I tell myself).
Besides, I don’t think this should be a resolution just for me. If you look at the health benefits of sex, you’ll also feel irresponsible not spending every night tangled in the sheets. Just ask researchers at Wilkes University in Pennsylvania. They discovered college students who had sex once or twice a week had a better immune system than students who had sex less often. Not only that, sex is good exercise, lowers your blood pressure, increases bladder control, and even decreases pain. Period cramps? No problem. Good sex will actually lessen them, which is why having menstrual sex is a fabulous idea.
So, in order to achieve this rather exciting goal, I need to work out a game plan. My idea of regular sex is about three or four times a week. Therefore, if there are 52 weeks in a year, I’m going to have to copulate about 200 times in 2016.
Sure, it looks like quite a lot if you put it in numbers, especially as I’m not currently dating anyone. But I’m vivacious, I’m confident, and in a pair of tight pants I look like a Minaj-Kardashian clone (read: ghetto booty). Put those factors together and this feat is as doable as I am.
So in a few days time, when we ring in the New Year, I won’t be thinking of career goals, or a healthier lifestyle, or even the words to Auld Lang Syne.
I’ll be staring at whatever hot Guatemalan exchange student happens to be across whichever bar I’m celebrating at, planning my first step towards coital bliss over the next 12 months. So to achieving an entirely sexually depraved 2016, I refer to the most treasured anecdote of How I Met Your Mother‘s master of frequent bonking, Barney Stinson…
Image via tumblr.com.