New Year’s Eve – So Over It

New Year’s Eve always falls into that special category of events that only two other events belong to.  And that is Halloween and my birthday.

You know which category I’m talking about.  The category that always causes so much stress, anxiety, sweating, and expectations that it can only end  in one (or a combination) of the following three things:

1.) Crying

2.) Vomiting

3.) Broken hearts and crushed dreams

It happens every year.  Every year I go into New Year’s Eve thinking this is it.  This is the year everything’s going to fall into place and it’s going to go exactly as I imagined.

I’ll spend two hours getting ready applying the impeccable “evening glam” makeup and squeezing into that dress that is the perfect amount of sexy and sophisticated.  I’ll make my way over to only the coolest New Year’s Party with a fashionably late entrance and mingle effortlessly with every single one of the guests.

Classy drinks will be had by all and I’ll charm the pants off everyone in attendance until just before the stroke of midnight when we all countdown to the new year.  As the clock strikes midnight, I’ll get to kiss the most handsome, perfectly dressed, nice smelling man in the room who will then proceed to fall madly in love with me, ask me to marry him and cook him bacon.  Exactly in that order.

And each year, this is what is supposed to happen.

Instead, this is what actually happens.

Thinking I have plenty of time, I sit around watching one too many Beyonce videos until it’s too late.  I race to the shower after which I hurriedly throw my outfit together and brush makeup over my face all while randomly throwing my cash and belongings into my too tiny purse.

Emerging from the house a sweaty bag lady, I ride the train to the dirty club I paid eighty dollars too much to get into while sipping on my vodka orange juice disguised in a old plastic water bottle I used three days ago.

I finally make it to the club where I get too drunk within the first thirty minutes.  If by some miracle I manage to make it to midnight without crying or vomiting, I’ll grab the nearest random male to kiss at midnight only to find out later from a friend that he had a wonky eye and kept telling everybody he had been in jail over a misunderstanding involving a knife.

This year, I say, “No, Thank You.  No thanks to paying what must be the price of a limb for tickets to a party.  No thanks to having to wait in line for a dirty bathroom with suspicious fluids on every surface.  No thanks to waiting three hours to find a taxi cab. No thanks to tears.  No thanks to puking.  And no thanks to broken dreams.

Instead, I choose pajamas.  And listening to my family tell me how to save money at the movie theatres by bringing my own popcorn and fruits, and discussing the merits of ordering butter versus margarine.  But I especially choose cupcakes – which is really just like saying love.

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