Because I am capable of sucking the fun out of any holiday, allow me to tell you that New Year’s always make me think about the arbitrariness of measure, the ridiculousness of time, and the fact that so much of our reality, from currency to years, is ultimately made up. Because who decides that 11 days after the winter solstice is when the New Year starts? It feels like a violation of nature.
Still, I celebrated last night with friends new and old, kissed at midnight, and went out again today, doing my best to be festive even if I’m not really feeling it. I will take any opportunity to party, in truth. I shouldn’t lie: I’m feeling it.
2011 was a year of giving up, and I can say that without feeling desperate or pathetic. I gave up expectations, I gave up certainty, I gave up knowing. I fell in love, which is no small accomplishment for a control freak who doesn’t like most people. I learned to pray in wonderful ways, then had to let it all go as I forgot again, and now my dry prayers are prayers to remember what came before.
All of this threw me off. In retrospect, maybe it’s a sign that I am a little closer to mature: God trusted me – I trusted myself – with questions and changes and all of the things that I spent my twenties being frightened of. And I’m still here, ready for another arbitrary, blessed, wonderful year.