There’s a certain dreary sameness to the practice; every year seemingly, we promise our future self a fitter, faster, stronger, richer, happier state of being, one more worthy of love or success or some other matter of fancy. Certainly worthier of whichever bounty might justly accrue to present self – that flabby thing over there in the corner, wretchedly unloved – unlovable? – alone and more than slightly drunk. Bad present self, get your act together already. Right?