New Years Eve is vastly over-rated. I've had many a good night, but none of them have ever been on New Years Eve. Maybe there's just too much hype.
So this year, I celebrated the ball-drop by doing something I've been threatening to do for years - I holed myself up like the hermit I aspire to be, and spent the night in the company of me, myself and I (and a drug-addled dog, but that's another story.)
With my friends a million-miles away and my boyfriend stuck at work, there was really no one I wanted to ring in the New Year with. I could have tagged along with my parents, going to a party with the cool kids. And even my old stand-by, the annual bash at my Aunt and Uncle's was cancelled with them in Ottawa for a hockey tournament (dumping their drug-addict dog with us). And, Lord knows what Bro was up to on New Years... all I know is he stumbled in at noon, demanded Gatorade, and passed out. Then I spent the rest of my afternoon afraid to wake a sleeping bear.
So after work, I fixed myself a feast of Christmas leftovers, and finished reading The Help. I helped myself to a single delight from the Pot of Gold tray, then, feeling trés Bridget Jones, helped myself to a half-dozen more. After all, isn't New Years Eve about indulgence?
After enough time had passed, I headed over to my parents' house (I mean, I didn't want my mother thinking I was a loser without big plans. I got a reputation to maintain, you know.)
I arrived at my parents' house, my tiny puppy barking her head off at me like I'm some sort of axe-wielding maniac, while the big dog barely lifted his head, in his drugged-stupor. I cranked the heat to a balmy 72 - an indulgent luxury my 67-degrees father would never allow. I ran the bath, steamy cranberry-joy foam wafting in the air, and all I needed was the champagne - some bubbly for my bubbly bath.
And wouldn't you know, I couldn't open the fucking thing. I channelled my inner-Bridget Jones, and fondly reminisced of all the champagne I drank alone when I was single. That's when I really wished Superman was here with me. He always opens the bubbly. But dammit, what I may lack in strength, I make up for in ingenuity, and I opened that fucker with a corkscrew!
I settled into my bath (which was scalding, at this point) with a copy of Generation A and my champagne. And I soaked in that tub (fully-clothed, of course, lest you are tempted to picture me au naturel). I soaked for an hour, without anyone pacing the length of the hallway, banging on the door, demanding to know what the hell I'm doing in there.
I emerged raw and red, scrubbed, pumiced and exfoliated. I felt like some sort of New Years metaphor. But time for metaphorizing was limited - I had 30 minutes til midnight, and drunk as a skunk I straitened my hair and did my nails. The irony was not lost on me - all dressed up and no place to go. But I felt ready to greet 2012.
7 minutes to midnight I turned on the TV, and flipped around before settling on the tackiest of New Years Eve regalia's - Much Music's Electric Circus. I poured myself my sixth glass of champagne, and feeling queezy, raided the fridge and scored with some cold fried chicken.
10... 9.... 8...
Picture me, on the couch, in my jammies...
7... 6... 5...
Scarfing down cold chicken, the grease melting on my tongue...
4... 3... 2...
A little woozy from the champagne, but knocking back another glass...
1!!!
Happy New Year!!
And then he called. And then, my New Years was perfect. And I refused to hug or kiss the dogs, or my parents, cause I was saving that kiss for him.
Enjoy the year, make it count!
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