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 1^st 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.

Cory Bond playing with his hand gun at home outside Nashville, Tennessee on May 18^th, 2007. We blazed through town on a drive from New York City to New Orleans.

“A lady understands that the way she decorates her personal spaces speaks volumes about her person.”

–Very Classy Pg. 105

Me with Lyle Maltz on a very sunny day in Zurich, Switzerland, on November 26^th, 2006. (What a wonderful visual to start a new year!)

“A lady knows it’s the thought that counts, but she makes sure it’s not a second thought.”

–Very Classy Pg. 158

Me with Shala Monroque and the birthday boy, Peter Brant, II

Pat McGrath and Lyle Maltz (above); Harry and Peter Brant, II (below)

Peter Brant, II, is legal, ladies and gentlemen! The elegant teenager, who is cultured in everything from Azzedine Alaia (a devotee of mother Stephanie Seymour) to French literature to the windows at Harry Winston, turned 18 on December 30th. To celebrate this momentous ocassion, Petey’s little brother Harry organized a small soiree in St. Barth’s. The request of something slightly tacky was granted: sparklers in giant bottles of Crystal champagne at daytime discoteque Nikki Beach. (See the video below of the festive event.) ‘Twas a memorable afternoon for a memorable young man.

“A lady knows when to take the car keys away from a friend and call a taxi.”

–Very Classy Pg. 86

It’s almost that time of year. Well, the fleeting last moments of the year, when friends come together to make a bunch of poor decisions, drink heavily while holding sparklers, and get sloppy for one brief second of revelry. (Ahh, I love it.) To help me get into the mood, I’ve been watching this video of the Black Eyed Peas ring in the New Year 364 days ago.

The entrance to Hickory Ridge, the Blasberg Family farm in Hillsboro, Missouri

Me and Karlie Kloss at Imo’s Pizza, our favorite Midwest eatery

The Blasberg Family on Christmas Day

A collage I made in 1997, when I was a freshman in high school, as a personal tribute to the recently slain fashion icon Gianni Versace

RJ King and his sister Meghan at Novak’s in St. Louis

Ben Wymer and his sister Ouida at Novak’s (again)

The holidays are over and, as I sit here in my parents’ kitchen back home in Missouri, I have that warm, squishy feeling that only comes from binge eating and quality family time. But don’t worry: This euphoria will soon be replaced with travel rage and general annoyance when I make my way to the airport tomorrow to transition from Christmas fun with the family to New Year’s antics with friends. This season was particularly fulfilling because it was the perfect blend of dysfunctional family bonding, reconnecting with friends from my childhood, and catching up with new friends I’ve made in New York who just so happen to also be from this neck of the woods.

My Midwest highlight is always driving out to Hillsboro, a small town that used to be considered the backwoods of St. Louis, but has slowly developed into a neighborhood all its own. My uncle snatched up a few hundred acres on the cheap in the 1960s and built a charming house with his own two hands; he likes to say it took him 30 years and two wives to do it. It’s a quiet, quaint part of the world, never mind the recent reports that say some of the nearby farms are some of the biggest producers of crystal meth in the entire country. (Hey, what else are these toothless back country crackheads going to do out here? Read a book?)

It wasn’t only family time while I was back home, however. One of the great things about the holidays is that everyone slows down, even the fashion industry, which never seems to let up for the rest of the year. That’s why, after trying for most of 2011 to coordinate our trips back home, my St. Louis sister Karlie Kloss and I managed to have a date at Imo’s a few days before Christmas. I also managed to meet up with New York pals Ben Wymer and RJ King, and their sisters too, who were visiting their hometowns and families. Together, we made some new discoveries: Novak’s, a lesbian dance club near the Central West End, and, believe it or not, the World Chess Hall of Fame, which we took a private tour of the day after Christmas. (I’ve only ever played one game of chess, and I hated it. But the museum was fabulous.) Other than that, it was business as usual: Steak N Shake, the aforementioned Imo’s, family dinner at Kreis’ Steakhouse, wasted hours at the Galleria, and nostalgic moments in my childhood bedroom. My parents have lived in the same house since I was born, and I stay in my first and only childhood bedroom. Talk about a mind trip. Yes, that is a tribute collage I made when Gianni Versace was murdered in 1997. (My parents should have known then.)

For more pictures from my joyous holiday season, and a quick personal video of our tour of the World Chess Hall of Fame (it’s much less boring than it sounds, I promise), follow through on the JUMP.

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Me and my most amazing dog, Monster, on Christmas morning in 2009. Happy holidays, everyone. Have a lovely weekend and a very happy new year.