I’ve never been a fan of New Year’s resolutions. It seems so arbitrary to make up new behavioral rules that correspond to a calendar year. What’s the big deal about January 1st anyway? I’m not a taxman or an accountant. I don’t heed to a fiscal year. A new year really starts with the changing of the seasons, of course. Even if I were to make resolutions, they’d be christened in the fall, because, as Vogue’s Candy Pratts Price once proclaimed, “September is the January of fashion.” My major contention with New Year’s resolutions: What’s the point of going on a diet in the middle of winter? Chances are you will have given up, relapse on carbohydrates, and be fat again by Speedo season anyway.

This is why, instead of doing a list of things that I really enjoying doing now that I want to start depriving myself of, which is basically what a New Year’s resolution is anyway, I’ve decided to put together a list of things I’ve never done and don’t plan on ever doing. Herein, a list of things that I resolve to continue to never do in 2012:

I’ve never done drag. This one is particularly disappointing because, well, I have fabulous legs. Not to mention when I was a freshman in college I worked part time at modeling agencies and one of my jobs was to escort new girls to runway classes, so I too can sashay with the best of them. I know many assume men who work in fashion secretly wish they were women who can wear the dresses they write about, but I’ve never had a drag desire. Give me a cravat and wingtip shoe any day.

I’ve never used a martini glass. I prefer my beverages served in the butchest way possible: A tumbler glass, please. And that’s for three reasons: They hold more booze, I’m a klutz who would spill everything out of any sort of glass with a stem, and I’ve always thought having to hold a cocktail with the tips of my fingers and my pinky in the air was too much of a cliché.

I’ve never bought drugs, done crystal meth or seen crack in real life. This one is for you, Mom. Now quit asking me. (On a similar note: Congratulations to Hillsboro, Missouri, where I spend the holidays with my family, for recently topping several charts for being the largest producer of crystal meth in the world!)

I’ve never three-way kissed. Or exchanged any bodily fluids in a group for that matter. Unless you count a blood drive I organized in the early 2000s.

I’ve never gone to Vegas. Don’t get me wrong: I love an all you can eat buffet, senior citizens, and mind boggling fashion choices. But I’ve never made it to Sin City and I’m not exactly dying to go either. I hate air conditioning, I’m scared of the desert, I’m not a gambler, and unless I can play craps with someone who looks like Sharon Stone in the movie Casino, I’m not interested.

I’ve never bought a Radiohead album. Depending on whom you ask, my musical tastes are either refreshingly mainstream or embarrassingly predictable. My iPod plays like a bat mitzvah or a gay wedding. There’s the predictable Pop hits (Madonna, Britney, Beyoncé, Gwen Stefani and so forth) mixed in with a little country boy twang (Carrie Underwood, Johnny Cash) and attempts at street cred (The Kills, The XX). I used to be ashamed of my playlists and hate myself that I’ve never bought a Radiohead album, but I’ve grown to accept myself and my music tastes, and be proud of it. I do love Michael Stipe, however. Is that some sort of saving grace?

I’ve never done a chain email forward. Never done one, won’t do one, and please (Mom, I’m talking to you again here), don’t send them to me.

I’ve never done a cross-country road trip. I’ve done a few long drives in my life. When I moved to New York for university a decade ago, my parents and I drove our packed Suburban from St. Louis to Lower Manhattan, which was one of the most memorable trips of my life. (I had strep throat and was drugged up the whole time, my parents were sending their youngest off to college and dealing with Empty Nest syndrome, we stayed at a Howard Johnson in Virginia that smelled of rape and shattered dreams.) But that was only halfway; I haven’t done the cross-country thing yet. Part of me thinks I’m not ready and I wouldn’t appreciate it. And I’m scared I’d kill whoever goes with me, even if that means I’d do it alone

I’ve never paid full price for something at a fancy store. I’m fully aware of the irony here: I work at fashion magazines that tell people that it’s completely normal – nay, that it’s a necessity – to dish out thousands of bucks for an item of clothing as soon as it’s in stores. But I personally am too thrifty and cost conscious to do it myself. It’s the Midwestern penny pincher in me. I pride myself on bargain racks, vintage stores and the complete lack of dignity when it comes to asking for friends and family discounts.

I’ve never bought popcorn at the movie theater. This too has to do with my thriftiness ($12 for some Twizzlers is just offensive), although the studies that showed that artificial butter causes cancer have helped matters.

I’ve never used MySpace. When it comes to social networking, I’ve been a little schizophrenic. I will Tweet my face off @derekblasberg, but I didn’t join Facebook for seven years. (In fact, I joined a month ago and instantly regretted it.) Similarly, I was all over Friendster like a bad rash, but I never did MySpace. And to be honest, I don’t even know how it works. Or if it even still exists.

I’ve never induced vomiting to reduce alcoholic affects or nutritional intake. Despite my best efforts, but I’ve never been a drunk and I’ve never been an anorexic. In fact, up until a rather disgusting episode with Five Guys Burgers and Fries two years ago, which has turned me off the greasy eatery ever since, I hadn’t upchucked since childhood.

I’ve never taken inappropriate pictures of myself. It seems so common to have nudie pictures of yourself on your phone or circulating the Internet nowadays, but I’ve always thought it was painfully déclassé. And not only because I’m prudish. It’s like I say in my book, Very Classy: Unless it’s Mario Testino taking the pictures (and, more importantly, his office doing the retouching), I don’t think anyone should even consider a nude series. Especially self portraits on a cell phone, which will be grainy and no doubt shot from a most unflattering angle.

I’ve never worn boxer shorts. I’m a briefs man myself. I’ve always thought bunching, especially in that region, is so undignified.