New Years Eve is no exception. It's not just that it is just another couple's holiday where singles are pressured into finding someone, anyone to kiss at midnight. It's not because of the old adage that whatever you do on New Years Eve is what you will be spending the next year of your life doing. It's not because of the champagne, and Auld Lang Syne, and watching Dick Clark fight through a stroke to still be the face and voice of the NYE celebration in NYC (Ryan Seacrest can go eff himself).
It's because of the ball dropping.
How many balls had I dropped, in terms of my career, love, life, friendship over the past year? How many times had I let someone else down? What could I have done differently? What can I do differently in the next year to make sure I'm not in the same place on December 31st, hoping and wishing and making plans for a future that is unsure and fraught with questions? I reflect on these things as the countdown starts and see the next year looming as 365 days of potential doom.
I may be a pessimist. But I'm a pessimist with a sense of humor.
You see, if this New Years is the bar to which I should measure the next year, I will be spending 2011 with friends and loved ones, slightly tipsy on Jello shots and vodka cranberry, scarfing a gourmet spread made with care by my two dear friends. It will end with me climbing up on a rooftop, still tipsy and in heels, hanging out with a handsome man until three in the morning, and will be swept off of my feet into his muscle bound arms and dumped in front of my car door before I make my way wearily home to bed. I will then wash my face by splashing water on it clumsily, brush my teeth so as to not give plaque the ability to deteriorate my tooth enamel, and pop my bleary, make up clogged contact lenses out of my eyeballs into solution to sit there until I wake up at 8:30 to start the day.
Bring it on, 2011. Bring. It. On.
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