New Year's Eve- can't be bothered
So about now, I expect all y'all are beginning your preparations for this evening's festivities: painting your nails, buffing your feet, beating your hair into some semblance of an up-do, and sausaging your bunnies into double-ply spandex in hopes of hiding the bulges in last years party dress. Well that's what I would be doing if I were participating in New Year's Eve.
But I am not. I have called it all off. Obviously I can't stop the clock from ticking and I will even attempt to remain conscious until midnight, at which point I will nudge Sweetpotato, surely snoring on the couch beside me, we will kiss, toast a glass of over-priced champagne, and quickly call it a night.
It's not that I don't appreciate Auld Lang Syne and all that end-of-year sentiment, but honey, New Year's Eve has got to be be the most over-blown holiday, or maybe tied with Valentine's Day. Billed as the most romantic nights of the year, both holidays have been created to bring maximum disappointment to women everywhere. Think about it- in both cases a single day is built up to the point where anything short of a prince on a white steed whisking you to a land far, far away is considered a failure.
Given the unfairytale-like nature of real life, there are only 3 possibly outcomes for a woman on New Year's Eve:
Option number 1... the evening ends in tears because Prince Charming never arrived.
Option number 2... the evening ends too drunk to do anything but throw up and pass out.
Or the most common ending is a hybrid of options 1 and 2 whereby the evening ends in tears because Prince Charming arrived but is too drunk to do anything but throw up and pass out. In option 3, no matter how poorly the evening ends, the morning to follow is ten times worse with more tears, more headaches, and most assuredly, more vomiting.
There simply are no "When Harry Met Sally" scenes, where men run through the streets and burst into the glamorous gala (where you're conveniently beside the door looking fabulous) to profess their undying love. The most you can hope for is a fumbling grope and a slurry attempt at a compliment as you help him into the cab.
Dress it up any way you like, but the new year will still begin hung over a toilet, bad dancing on filthy bars, sobbing confessions in bathroom stalls, professions of love to total strangers, and other cringe-worthy visions dancing in your throbbing head.
But go on with your plans for a fabulous night on the town, honey. Queenie will be waiting for you in the morning with open ears and unsympathetic tongue.
But I am not. I have called it all off. Obviously I can't stop the clock from ticking and I will even attempt to remain conscious until midnight, at which point I will nudge Sweetpotato, surely snoring on the couch beside me, we will kiss, toast a glass of over-priced champagne, and quickly call it a night.
It's not that I don't appreciate Auld Lang Syne and all that end-of-year sentiment, but honey, New Year's Eve has got to be be the most over-blown holiday, or maybe tied with Valentine's Day. Billed as the most romantic nights of the year, both holidays have been created to bring maximum disappointment to women everywhere. Think about it- in both cases a single day is built up to the point where anything short of a prince on a white steed whisking you to a land far, far away is considered a failure.
Given the unfairytale-like nature of real life, there are only 3 possibly outcomes for a woman on New Year's Eve:
Option number 1... the evening ends in tears because Prince Charming never arrived.
Option number 2... the evening ends too drunk to do anything but throw up and pass out.
Or the most common ending is a hybrid of options 1 and 2 whereby the evening ends in tears because Prince Charming arrived but is too drunk to do anything but throw up and pass out. In option 3, no matter how poorly the evening ends, the morning to follow is ten times worse with more tears, more headaches, and most assuredly, more vomiting.
There simply are no "When Harry Met Sally" scenes, where men run through the streets and burst into the glamorous gala (where you're conveniently beside the door looking fabulous) to profess their undying love. The most you can hope for is a fumbling grope and a slurry attempt at a compliment as you help him into the cab.
Dress it up any way you like, but the new year will still begin hung over a toilet, bad dancing on filthy bars, sobbing confessions in bathroom stalls, professions of love to total strangers, and other cringe-worthy visions dancing in your throbbing head.
But go on with your plans for a fabulous night on the town, honey. Queenie will be waiting for you in the morning with open ears and unsympathetic tongue.
posted by Queenan at 12:43 PM
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