It should surprise no one that I loathe New Year’s Eve.
I know what you are thinking, “It’s because you hate happy people.” And that’s obviously true. I mean, who doesn’t? Alas, that’s not the main reason.
I was once like you. I had hope for the future and something resembling a positive outlook. But then I turned 4 and knocked that off. The simple truth is, New Year’s Eve, or more specifically the festivities that are de rigueur, have nearly always been disastrous for me.
Think I’m kidding?
The best New Year’s Eve I can remember involved tear gas and a near stampede. That’s right. When I think of my best New Year’s Eve experience I think about an evening that ended with my eyes uncontrollably tearing and the air being sucked from my lungs while I tried to run away from a crowded square full of people in Germany. Ah, good times.
(By the way, belated kudos to the person who grabbed me and pulled me into that alley, as I was clueless to what had happened—a million warm and fuzzy thoughts for keeping me from getting trampled. It will make a great ending to the movie of my life if you turn out to be George Clooney, and I just couldn’t make out who you were through the tearing and wheezing).
I can’t even come up with a good second place. Is it the one that occurred two days before the Ex indicated that it was time to think about where our relationship was going (well, sure, because the previous decade obviously hadn’t provided any time for reflection)? Or was it the one when I was 17 and my date got too drunk to drive, but insisted on trying to drive anyway? I tried to get his keys, and he thought he’d be a smart-ass and dropped his keys down his pants. Naturally, I kneed him in the balls. Amazing how quickly your date sobers up when keys get embedded into his scrotum. Needless to say, my parents picked me up from the party, and “key-balls-boy” and I were not Meant-2-B-4-Evah.
Despite this abhorrence of all things festive on Monday night, I am an absolute nut about resolutions. I can’t get enough of them. Just ask my friends—more and more of them have been sucked into my web of insanity. And there is still time to get them finished (yep, I’m looking at you RS). It’s oddly fitting for me. When most people are looking forward to champagne and finery, I’m looking forward to putting together a to do list for the coming year.
For whatever reason, the group of us has had some ripping good success at these things—and they have included some incredibly specific goals, too. For instance, “I want my first SAG job to be as an FBI agent on the series finale of The X-Files” was one of the first ones made in the group. Sure enough…. Perhaps it’s something about sharing them with a group that keeps us accountable, or putting it out into the universe has actually been helpful (but let’s face it, I’ve put my prurient George Clooney desires and the “winning the lottery” yearning into the universe to no avail).
Whatever it is, I’m compelled to keep going. After all, that date with George and a publishing deal is clearly only one or two more resolutions away.