Thursday, January 1, 2015

No Promises for My New Year

Happy damn New Year. It's just a number. Numbers have to cycle. What difference does it make whether it's the beginning of 2015 or the end of 2014? Really, one minute doesn't feel differently than another yet we stand up like a bunch of idiots, count down, cheer, kiss, and blow off fireworks as if it's the middle of the summer whenever one year turns into the next.

I'm fifty-four fucking years old and every year I expect that there is a magic moment, a time between space, when I will feel different because a marker on my calendar has passed and I have to go out and buy a new one. Why is that? What is so special about 12:00am on 1/1/2015? What?

Just in case it really does mean something and there is that magic moment, that time when you have to kiss your favorite person or lose that spot in time and space for a whole year, I'm going to pay attention. I'm going wait until midnight. I'm going to kiss my husband. I'm going to hug my son good-night. I might even hand him a pot and a wooden spoon and let him stand on the back deck and yell and make some noise in the middle of the night. If we had any fireworks, I might let him set them off too.

But I look forward to my sweet warm bed. I look forward to closing my eyes and waking up in a new year, one I haven't sullied with resolutions or diets or broken promises to get more exercise or keep my house cleaner or to finally put those photos into scrap books.

Did you hear me clearly? I'm not making any promises, so if I don't show up for a lunch we've planned next week, don't be surprised. I just might be lounging in my cozy bed for an extra hour or two. 

Wouldn't that be nice?

Thank you for listening, jules

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