I’m so not a resolution person.
Publicly stating intentions, for me, is a recipe for failure.
(Kind of like getting someone’s name tattooed on a personal area of your body; you WILL break up with the person. Even if you were doing just fine before the tat, something about immortalizing the relationship in ink will kill it. No one knows why.)
So I’m not resolving anything.
I think that next year, on December 31, 2010, I’d like to try to have a nice, shiny, traditional New Years Eve.
One with grown ups and champagne and a pretty dress and a band.
You’ve all told me they’re over-rated, that they’re actually boring, a waste of time and money.
But I’d still like to try.
It’s not that my New Years Eves have been devoid of activity.
As a kid, I made my own confetti, spread it, and cleaned it up, all while my babysitter slept soundly. As a teenager, I watched a ball drop in a square I didn’t even bother to dream of seeing one day. As a grown up, I sat at house parties, realizing that it was one in the morning, and everyone had been too drunk to look at the clock. I ushered in the year Prince promised us we would always party in the manner of (i.e. 1999) by laying on the floor, staring up at a tree suspended from the ceiling, rather than held up by a tree stand, after having made paella for a crowd of people I didn’t know. I’ve spent New Years Eve pregnant, sad, terrified of the year to come. And as a parent, I have spent New Years Eve at a family movie, watching my kid punch Steve Martin in the nuts, then coming home to kiss sticky little I-can’t-believe-they’re-still-awake faces at midnight.
So maybe, just maybe, I’ll put on a pretty dress and do it in a way I’ve never done it, next year.
(Someone remind me mid-September to get that ball rolling, won’t you?)
(Image from here.)