What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?
I’m going to ask this guy to a New Year’s Eve party, and I swear to everything that’s holy, if he doesn’t go, I am done with him. DONE! I mean, two-and-a-half months is plenty long enough for a man to make some overture of greater interest. No holding hands. No KISSING. What lukewarm-blooded-man doesn’t like kissing, for crying out loud? Dead men probably like kissing. Andra, calm down. Just send him an aloof e-mail acting like you really don’t care if he goes with you. Then, we can get all in a tizzy and be done with him. Okay?
In his fetching manner, he replied that he usually went out of the country for New Year‘s. Luckily for me, he continued, his passport was expired. Since he couldn’t go anywhere foreign and exotic, he might as well squire me to this soiree.
I hightailed it back to the mirror. What kind of freaking answer is THAT? OHMYGOD! He said YES! Does that mean he really likes me? Andra, this is madness. Pull yourself together. After all, you have nothing to wear. OHMYGOD! I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR! WHAT AM I GOING TO WEAR?! (Insane rifling through closet.) Ew, grandma. Doyoulikemedoyoulikemedoyoulikeme? Hello, I’m a hooker. Take me to bed or lose me forever, you big stud. NONONO. That will never do, Andra. Pull yourself together or you’re going to blow this date before it starts. Go buy a simple, demure black party skirt, because your crazy self is going to have to spend hours on the mammoth Coiffure Ritual of the Proper Southern Lady.
Somehow, I managed not to trip over my skirt as I made my entrance into the restaurant for our pre-party victuals. He seemed appreciative and attentive, but in his usual distant (maddening) way. I began to worry (despair) that this whole thing really was nothing, that it would never BE anything more than pleasant small-talk and casual flirting.
An hour into the party, something happened. The man held my hand. I stood there, not hearing a word some party-goer opposite me was saying as I played my blasted internal dialogue. Do not squeeze his hand too hard, Andra. It will look desperate. Stop flushing. You don’t want him to know how much you like holding his hand. OHMYGOD, I am orbiting planet earth because this man is HOLDING MY HAND. Stopitstopitstopit, Andra. You are an almost thirty-four-year-old woman. Act like a grown-up.
I don’t know how I managed to keep my hyperactive mind pulled together enough to convince him to kiss me at midnight. It should’ve been the last thing he wanted. But, he looked at me. For the first time in our almost three-month-long little tete-a-tete, he started my 2003 with the urgent hurricane of a kiss. It wiped my slate clean, swallowed my soul, and altered the trajectory of the orbit of my life.
It was some Happy New Year.
Whatever your celebrations hold tonight, I hope you find the swirling typhoon that propels you into 2012 with renewed purpose, a calm center, and the drive to make all your dreams come true. I’d love to know what you’re doing to celebrate if you care to share it in a comment today. Let’s rock 2012, everyone.