Tonight is New Year's Eve, officially the worst holiday ever. The only positive memories I have of this day are from my tween years, before the adult illusions of a spectacular evening had set in. My sister and I would go to my grandma's house and enjoy a corny evening of Dick Clark, make party hats out of tin foil, and if we were lucky, get a shot of Grandma's homemade kalua. In our hearts we knew we were just biding our time until the really fun years would begin.
From that point on, New Year's Eve has always been a holiday of great disappointment; of nothing to do, of reservations forgotten, of wrong shoes and wrong dresses in awkwardly wrong evenings. Nothing has ever been as magical as a movie. By this point in my life, I realize that I avoid celebrating New Year's at all. I hate resolutions because I never keep them, I hate having any kind of expectations for an evening, because I'm always disappointed. Okay, I'll admit that celebrating 2000 nine hours ahead of my fear-mongering countrymen was somewhat enjoyable. When I could call my mom after midnight and say "see mom, the phones are still working," it was a pretty satisfying moment. But then my husband insisted on going to downtown Nantes to watch fireworks or something festive and cold, and I just wanted to snuggle up with my baby in my jammies and celebrate by mentally savoring my life.
I'm so thankful. I want to expect nothing and be thankful for everything. Tonight I danced with my kids in the kitchen to the Black Eyed Peas, drank champagne in the crystal flutes from my wedding, played wii in my Christmas jammies with my baby on my lap and my new dog at my feet. It's 10 o'clock and I'm not staying up until midnight. Good night 2010.
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