I'm faking it. I fucking hate January. I hate the cold. I hate the bitterness. I hate the emptiness. And I fucking hate New Year’s Resolutions. The ill-fated question of “what are your resolutions this year” lays on the cusp of every tongue and around even the darkest of corners.
Must I define my year already? And myself? People tell me that resolutions are beneficial. End of year, “me” is going to be real grateful I stuck to my goals in January. Someone might’ve mentioned growth is essential a few hundred times. To whom, really, though? Who is holding the measuring tape? Resolutions are absolutely confining. Why must I devote myself to goals set as the person I am right now in this minute? What if I decide I’m someone else tomorrow?
Often, I feel completely overwhelmed by the fact that life is one upgrade after another. Must I maximize every facet of my life? And myself? I’ve always struggled to be content in my current present state. As the neurotic, perfectionist I am (hopefully won’t always be, shout out to my therapist), I’ve viewed life as a list of accomplishments, boxes to check off, and things to complete. I’m always striving and waiting rather than living and breathing.
Like my long list of boxes and checkmarks that lives in the back of my head, I sometimes also have to check off appearances (this makes me sound ungrateful, but sometimes it’s really all a lot). A few of my friends have birthdays in the days directly after New Year’s. (Dry January sympathizers stay far away, I’m begging you).
It’s dark and damp on my walks between trains, but hope and laughter are on the horizon, so I’ll venture out. From one birthday party to the next, I overhear the conversations of resolutions not once, not twice, but three times. It is the subway. And I do tend to pass thousands of strangers on a daily but I’m a headphone warrior when trekking around the city. I’m hardly locked into my surroundings.
Are we all slipping on the same self-improvement fur coat? Because, babe, I promise it’s a fucking fake!
I step off the train, disgusted and annoyed by the conversations now swirling in my own head, and I arrive at my second birthday party of the night. When I stepped inside, my friend immediately leaned over and whispered that she had a secret. To my surprise, the secret was that a magician was currently lurking in some corner of the party.
It’s Bed Stuy. It’s the first January weekend in the city. Post a Wednesday NYE. Why wouldn’t there be a magician at the party, ya know. Also, the magician was hired. Let me clarify that quickly, he was hired. Anyway…
Magicians and New Year’s Resolutions. Like my distaste towards January, I can’t say I’ve ever really fucked with magicians. I don’t like liars. I don’t like being deceived. Like New Year’s Resolutions, Magicians keep you on the edge of your seat with promises of grandeur if you just give them a little time and patience. As much as I want to stay and have faith in the performance of it all, I’ve never been able to give into it fully. (Or is it myself?) That was until this past Saturday.
Maybe it’s the past year of therapy, or perhaps it’s a newfound sense of life purpose (is it me or is it zoloft?), but the magic was quite literally restored. Was it the alcohol and my friends standing near? Potentially.
My issues with magic have always been the same as my issues with religion–I just can’t get myself to see what everyone else is. (Like, please pass the Kool-Aid. I’m trying really hard here.) I shout deep into the depths of my mind, begging, but I’m only met with silence.
The best days are often the ones we don’t expect to happen, and something was different that day. Maybe I was different. Maybe I was roofied.
I had become frustrated all night because the magician had not approached me. Isn’t their whole thing that they can sniff out unbelievers like a bloodhound? He glided from room to room, doing trick after trick. A little mind-reading here. A little mind-reading there. In my head, I’m scoffing at the fact that he is simply playing us all (but why am I frothing for a chance to get some skin in the game?). Similar to my issues with all men, I need to be the one they choose right there, right then. Or I’ll convince myself I’m not worthy.
Finally, as he steps up to put on his jacket, quite clearly marking his departure, my heart sinks. I wanted a chance. I wanted to give it a try. I’m open! I promise I’m open! I want to be chosen. I can try to have faith.
My roommate (brilliant, blonde and bold) flags him down at the last second. Thank god she makes the moves I’m too skittish to attempt. In a small, intimate setting (to be honest, I don’t remember many details of said trick), he begins his last act. Of course, we’re all completely enraptured. Silently breathing. Cheeks flushed. Giggle whispers. Eyes darting back and forth.
At one point during this, he asked me to close one hand into a fist as he slowly drew a black X in Sharpie on the palm of his hand. He proceeds to encourage me to open my hand, and wouldn’t you know it, you’d see a small, perfect black X in the same spot as his own hand.
X, quite literally, marks the spot.
I was, as one says, gagged. I was flabbergasted because I really had no inclination how the magician managed to do such a thing. Pure shock. Disbelief. Joy.
Now, the inebriation of it all had nothing to do with it. I’m convinced. But if this man were a God asking me to open my arms to discipleship right now, I’d be running outstretched. I was hooked.
Honestly, that wasn’t even the craziest shit he was doing, but I don’t remember the last time I felt pure, genuine, shock and awe. In a world of overstimulation and constant desensitization, it’s a rare and profound encounter. Especially, fully. In the moment. Heads down. Surrendered.
By the end of that night, only one of my previous qualms lived to see another day. I still have a distaste for New Year’s resolutions, but magicians might actually have a trick or two up their sleeves. It’s only day three of 2026, and I’ve already become a believer. Who knows what else is in store for me?
What I do know is that my roommate and I got the magician’s business card—he’ll be coming to a party in Bushwick soon. So fuck your resolutions, you have one goal this year. Find the fucking magic.
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