Here’s my final take of 2025: I hate performative indulgence. Don’t know what that is? Let me try to paint a picture for you. It’s Thanksgiving afternoon. People across the country have finished their “dinner” at 2 p.m. (a sin unto itself, but that’s for another post), and you check Instagram. Assaulting your eyes is story after story of the worst dude you knew from college with his legs up on the coffee table, pants unbuttoned, beer in a coozie, football on the television, with a caption like “not moving today lol” or “So full, can’t talk.” Shut up, Brad. Go for a walk.
I’ll give you another example: You’re out at a bar in the city. You’ve had one too many dirty martinis, and some colorful drink that tasted like rum and grenadine made out with one another, so you decide to step outside for a palate-cleansing smoke. Just as you light up, a girl reeking of Red Lion’s house white asks to bum one, because “drunk cigs don’t count.” I rebuke you, Stephanie. They all count; that’s the point.
My final example of performative indulgence is one we are all experiencing in these purgatorial days: the “I don’t even know what day it is” aphorism that spews from people’s eggnog-stained lips the second the calendar hits December 26th. You know exactly what day it is; you’re wearing a WHOOP.
Look, I’m probably being a bit grouchy because I’ve had a hangover since Thanksgiving. I’ve been so pumped full of butter, sugar, and booze over the last three months that I’m one errant match away from turning into a Flambé. Typically, my Yankee disposition leads me to believe that overindulgence for its own sake shouldn’t be celebrated. All forms of pleasure are painfully shameful and should be felt in secret. It’s like listening to K-pop or watching Minecraft videos—we ALL do it, but it doesn’t make it right.
My point is, don’t hide behind a phrase to enjoy that extra brownie or glass of wine. Accept your fate as a fat slob for a few days and carry on. I’ll be right there with you.
