Howdy folks, Glen Blamstead here. It’s officially a new year, which, according to the calendar, means I’m supposed to be refreshed, reformed, and ready to stop doing all the dumb things I did last year. Unfortunately, according to my joints and my memory, I am still very much the same person who walked into December like, “Yeah, this’ll be fine,” and then spent the rest of the month fixing things I definitely should’ve done differently. New Year’s has a funny way of making people believe time itself will fix their bad habits. Like January 1st rolls around and suddenly you don’t rush, don’t eyeball measurements, and don’t lose tools anymore. I’ve been around long enough to know that’s nonsense. If the calendar had that kind of power, my truck would be clean, my coffee would stay hot, and I wouldn’t still be muttering to myself about decisions I made fifteen minutes ago. I’ve repeated some mistakes so many times now that it feels rude to call them mistakes. They’ve earned a better title. These aren’t errors — they’re traditions. Longstanding, well-documented, remarkably consistent traditions that show up whether I invite them or not.
A Brand-New Year, Same Old Glen
Every year, right around New Year’s, I make the same promises. I tell myself I’ll slow down. I’ll double-check layouts. I’ll stop assuming things are “close enough.” And every year, I break those promises before the second week of January is over, sometimes before lunch. There’s something about a fresh year that fills you with confidence, and confidence is dangerous. Confidence is how you convince yourself that you don’t need to remeasure because you “just measured it.” Confidence is how you decide that bracing can wait, that the weather will cooperate, and that your memory is sharper than it actually is. Spoiler alert: it isn’t. Experience doesn’t stop you from making mistakes — it just lets you make them faster and with more confidence. And New Year’s doesn’t cure that. It just gives you a clean page to write the same story again, maybe with slightly better handwriting.
The Greatest Hits Nobody Asked For
By the time January shows up, I’ve usually got a mental scrapbook of the past year’s greatest hits. The post that leaned just enough to keep me awake at night. The cut that was “basically perfect” until it met the other board. The moment I said, “We won’t need that tool,” which, as it turns out, is the most reliable way to guarantee you’ll need that tool immediately. These aren’t one-off events. These are recurring characters. Winter just brings them back for a reunion tour. Frozen ground has a way of reminding you that planning matters. Cold fingers have a way of exposing overconfidence. Snow has a magical ability to hide problems until it’s far too late to pretend they’re not there. And every New Year, I act surprised by all of this, like winter is a new concept I’ve never encountered before. You’d think after enough years, I’d know better. You’d be wrong.
The Fantasy Version of Me
New Year’s resolutions are fascinating because everyone makes them like they’ve never met themselves before. I’ll be more organized. I’ll keep things tidy. I’ll stay ahead of problems. I say all of this while standing next to a truck that looks like a raccoon has been using it as a storage locker. I’ve tried organizing. I’ve tried systems. I’ve been attempting to put tools back in the same place every time. And yet, year after year, I’m still digging through piles looking for something that was definitely just in my hand. I’ll find tools I forgot I owned, parts from jobs long finished, and at least one thing I don’t remember buying. Somewhere in there is exactly what I need, and I will absolutely locate it the moment the job is done. That’s not bad luck — that’s tradition. And no matter how many times I swear I’ll change, chaos and I seem to have an understanding.
Winter: The Ultimate Lie Detector
Winter work adds an extra layer of comedy to all of this. Every year, I tell myself I’ll dress better—better gloves, better layers, better preparation. Every year, I grab the same gloves that don’t work, tell myself it’ll be fine, and then immediately regret it. I’ve dropped more fasteners in January than I care to count, mostly because I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore. I’ve convinced myself that I can “power through” cold conditions despite overwhelming evidence that this strategy has never worked. And yet, standing there in the New Year, I’ll still think, “This time won’t be so bad.” That’s optimism. Or denial. Possibly frostbite talking. The New Year doesn’t make me smarter — it just makes me hopeful enough to repeat the same lesson with a slightly different tone of voice.
The Moment I Know Better and Ignore It
The funny thing is, I usually know when I’m about to make a mistake. There’s a moment — a pause — where a sensible part of my brain says, “You should probably check that.” And then I ignore it. That’s not ignorance. That’s tradition. I trust past Glen way too much, even though past Glen has an impressive track record of being wrong. Builder Glen, Optimistic Glen, and “This’ll Be Fine” Glen are constantly arguing, and unfortunately, “This’ll Be Fine” Glen is very convincing. New Year’s gives me just enough distance to recognize these characters, even if it doesn’t stop them from showing up. Awareness doesn’t mean immunity. It just means you know exactly who to blame when it happens again.
Traditions Worth Keeping (and Laughing At)
At the end of the day, the New Year isn’t about becoming flawless. If that were the goal, I would’ve retired out of embarrassment years ago. It’s about recognizing patterns, laughing at yourself, and fixing what needs fixing before it becomes expensive. Some traditions deserve to stick around — showing up, doing honest work, and learning the hard way when necessary. Others? Maybe they need to be retired, or at least questioned. Will I still make mistakes this year? Absolutely. Will I repeat a few of them? Almost certainly. But I’ll also build better, notice faster, and laugh sooner — and that counts for something. From all of us out here doing it the hard way, Happy New Year. May your posts be straight, your coffee stay warm, and your traditions at least be good for a story.
