Last night, I couldn't sleep because I was so upset about not being able to find plans for New Year's Eve. I worked myself into a full-scale panic about it, like it was the worst thing in the world.
It's not, of course, but somehow, right then, it felt like it. I LOVE New Year's Eve, & I've always to come up with fun plans for it - sequins, champagne, dancing, laughter. This year, I bought a pretty new gold-&-black skirt & brainstormed ideas for plans with friends, but I couldn't get any of it to pan out. And the idea of ringing in a new year in my pajamas, 30 & alone & living in my mom's house, was just about the most depressing thing I could imagine.
Eventually, I fell asleep around 3am (thanks, Ativan), & when I woke up this morning, I was surprised to find that I felt much more zen about the whole thing.
Maybe I don't have to always be doing something, surrounding myself with other people to fend off my deep-seated Fear Of Missing Out. Maybe I don't need sequins & champagne & dancing on December 31st anymore - or maybe I do, but it would probably not be the end of the world to take a one-year hiatus just to take it easy. Maybe, for once, it wouldn't kill me to ring in New Year's Eve with Ryan Seacrest & a spiked hot chocolate & a pair of sweatpants.
It's been a long year. A hard year. A busy year. An indecisive year. A go, go, go year. It's been a long December, & there's reason to believe maybe this year will be (please, universe, please) a little bit more settled than the last. Might as well start now.