Making Way

Generally, I love New Year’s Eve. It’s one of those things I don’t really understand about myself. NYE is hokey and over-hyped. Why should this one night matter more than any other? But then it rolls around and I get all excited planning out what I’m going to wear, what I’m going to do, the excitement of a new year with myriad possibilities.

Resolutions are not usually part of the mix. I’m almost always trying to be a better person anyway. Kinder, more generous, more thoughtful, more likely to say yes than no; the kind of person who manages to eat well, get enough sleep and still accomplishes interesting creative things. I don't feel the need to add to that pile.

This year, of course, I’m not so excited. I knew I wouldn’t be. Of course. But I’m finding it more upsetting than I thought I would.

I cried in the beer store. “We’re out of Guinness,” and I welled up. I wasn’t sure I could manage the beginning of the new year without a bottle of dark beer. Or two. The guy behind the counter kindly suggested the Oatmeal Stout. An offer I hastened to accept. He is probably used to people in the Somerset Beer Store being passionate about their beer.

Come to think of it, I do have two resolutions.

First, I resolved to spend tonight with people. I may not actually believe that how you spend New Year’s determines the tone for the rest of your coming year, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to cry myself to sleep at 12:01. Mitch kindly invited me to go party hopping with her and her crew. I don’t resolve to have actual fun - too much pressure - but I do resolve to not be a depressing pain in the ass. I’ll let you know tomorrow whether I broke my resolution.

Second, I resolved to start next year with a clean apartment. I put away the laundry that had been on the drying racks since before Christmas. I scaled half of dish mountain, which had been accreting at an alarming pace since the moment I returned from Stouffville. I picked up the tufts of cat hair in the hallway. Cleaned the bathroom. Washed my sheets and took them to the laundromat to dry them. Turned all the stuff lying randomly around my house into stuff piled in orderly piles. Including two for relationship stuff.

Before, of course, I went to the beer store. Indeed.

One pile to store away: the giant squid poster that had been hanging in the hall; the cards and the notes; the lid from the cupcakes we shared last valentine’s; the tickets from our first few dates; the dirty promise written on a vinyl glove.

One pile to return: sex toys, books, and fish stuff. A relationship could end in worse ways, I suppose.

I’ve got a few more hours to finish the dishes, get the sheets on the bed, do a little dusting, wonk in some contacts and slap on some lipstick before I go out and fake the fun until I make the fun.

If you see me around, wish me happy Happy and a good beer. That way, you know I'll be able to manage at least one of those things.