The truth is, I’m sort of glad I don’t do the New Years Eve Party scene anymore.
I hated the rushing, I hated the drama that happens when people drink or when they feel like this is the night to purge whatever has been nesting up their backside all year, I hated the glitter that got over everything- my hairand up my nose and in my ears.
Above all, I especially hated celebrating something that pretty much happens every single morning anyway.
Now on New Years Eve I order pizza and wear fleece pants with Hello Kitty designs all over them, I wear ginormous sweatshirts that I pop into the dryer for a few minutes so that it will be toasty warm when I dive into it and I wear slippers that look like wolves-cozy snuggly soft wolves with pointy little ears that fascinate my dog to distraction.
Then at the stroke of Midnight I take my dog outside and we watch the fireworks.
While we are outside also eat the rest of the pizza because nothing is sadder then uneaten pizza the morning after a holiday, and we both wear sunglasses even though it’s midnight because why the heck not.
I guess if you want to celebrate your idea of a new start or you want to celebrate the fact you got into that special dress or your with the love of your life and you get to throw back wine after butchering a toast to the New Year in a foreign language go ahead.
Knock yourself out.
But last night I sat out in a dog park with the best dog in the world, I was warm and cozy in a pair Hello Kitty Fleece pants, a hoodie that I got from the Pompeii exhibit that came through Seattle awhile ago and my lucky pair of thirty-eight year old Ray Ban sunglasses with one cracked lens.
Hamish’s glasses have palm trees on them and for some reason he likes them.
Hamish sat next to me on the bench and we ate Pizza, we watched the fireworks
and it was pretty damn awesome.
Happy New Year.
I mean it and I didn’t even have to write it on a balloon.