I Know What I'm Doing (19 page)

We were three doors down at the Clearys’ house. It was some kind of summertime party—somewhere in between the Fourth of July and Labor Day. It was the first time that I had ever stayed up past ten p.m. and was allowed to be out with adults. My parents weren’t freewheelin’ hippies. They were already in their twenties, married with kids, during the whole free love era. It was just one of those things . . . a neighborhood family barbecue turned into . . . well, the kids are having fun and it’s nice out and we don’t want to leave and I guess it’s okay if Jennifah goes to bed late tonight and sleeps it off tomorrow. It’s not like she’s drinking. I was dead sober, boobless, and boyfriendless. I have never had so much fun at a party since.

I know that the theory that New Year’s Eve is just another night, that it doesn’t mean anything and is actually the worst night to go out because you have to deal with people who don’t usually go out, has been studied, analyzed, and reported on already. But even though most people say that New Year’s Eve isn’t a big deal these people still allow themselves to be sucked in every year and they end up at parties talking about how they don’t really care about being at a party.

When you get home from work some nights and heat up a microwave dinner, eating it anyway even though it’s not fully cooked, and sit in front of the TV, do you ever think to yourself,
I bet I’m really missing out on a meaningful party that’s going on somewhere right now
? No. You don’t. You’re so happy to be without pants and wiping melted cheese on your couch instead of using a napkin. But if you did that on New Year’s Eve you would set yourself up for scrutiny and pity not only from others but yourself.

I stayed home on New Year’s Eve this year and I did it for all of us. You too can spend a holiday alone and it doesn’t mean that you’re lonely. I even kept a diary of my night so that you can follow along should you choose to opt out of mandatory fun this December 31. As a visionary, I don’t mind if my vision is appropriated. This is an empowering how-to guide for the woman who isn’t afraid to spend some time with the love of her life—herself.

December 31—4:00 p.m.

I have it all planned out. I will go on a forty-five-minute hike so that I can watch the sun set. (What others might call “walking” through a carved-out trail in the woods that has the occasional incline and dip, people in Los Angeles call “hiking.” But I am not, as you may have pictured, wearing Vasque Summit GTX boots or brandishing an aluminum trekking pole.) With an air of superiority over the people of Studio City who were probably taking disco naps to get ready to stay up all night, I think to myself,
This is truly the end of the day, if we are going to go by nature, not midnight as The Man with his clocks and urge to control time would have us believe.
Technically—if we were all farmers—we would be in bed at sundown and up at sunrise. Maybe this is the year that I will be more like a farmer. I live in a condo so I can’t quite have crops or chickens but I think I will look into getting a planter for my patio and maybe I can grow my own green beans. That’s one less person supporting the industry of green beans being flown in from other areas, sprayed with chemicals for that long-lasting crunch, packaged in plastic, and causing local business and the environment to suffer. Or maybe I will just go to more farmers markets on Sundays. I remind myself that since I am an independent thinker, on what is a night no different from the rest except for the meaning we project onto it, there is no reason to start affirming what kind of agricultural approach I will employ in the New Year.

December 31—4:10 p.m.

I park at the base of the trail. Hmmm. It’s already pretty dusky out already. It will most likely be quite dark by the time I finish up the hike and head back to my car. I’m carrying Mace right next to my inhaler in my pocket. There are other people hiking, it’s not like I’m going to get attacked by this woman in front of me walking with her delicate, shaking Pomeranian peering out of her backpack. But the New Year’s Eve Murderer could be hiding in the woods. That’s what he would be known as in the papers after he ends my life, her life, and her little dog’s too. Would my Mace really be enough to take him down? A serial killer who hides in the woods would probably have a machete. And what if I accidentally grabbed my inhaler in the throes of terror? He would be caught off guard for a moment but then after catching a whiff of that Albuterol mist he would feel the air flowing freely into his lungs, adrenalized, having even more energy to wield his sharp object and then steal my iPod. On second thought, with these clouds looming it isn’t really a sunset kind of night. And that’s what this was all about—the ritual of watching the sun disappear as I say good-bye to the year, not that I need to say good-bye to the year because tonight is just another night. I think I’ll go home. I’ll hike in the morning as a New Year’s Day beginning! Or just a beginning of a day—since it’s also just another day, right?

December 31—4:30 p.m.

I turn on the Christmas tree and light pine-scented candles because my “O Tannenbaum” is plastic and from a tree farm named Target. I enjoy my cozy holiday environment. Going out would just waste the last socially acceptable night to have decorations up anyway. I make myself some hot apple cider. Well, I pour some cider that I bought from Trader Joe’s into a pan on my stove. But I even have cinnamon sticks to plop inside the mug to add a little spice. Who thinks of these things? Me. I’m adorable. There’s no need to drink alcohol on New Year’s Eve if I’m spending it with myself. That would be awful if I needed booze to enjoy my own company or get myself to open up or be attracted to myself. Besides, if I drink now, I could lose all judgment, keep drinking, and that could lead to drunken texting. I don’t feel like telling any platonic male friends that I love them but not in “that way” but well
maybe in that way
. Remember that one night when we got drunk and fooled around—that was fun, right? We could do that again sometime I bet and keep our friendship intact. Why have we never talked about it? Oh, you have a girlfriend now? Oh, cool. Well . . . enjoy your kiss at midnight, you two!

December 31—4:31 p.m.

I settle in on the couch to watch a movie before I decide what to do about dinner. I’m finally using the gigantic shag-rug-like blanket that could fit four people. How many days did I sit at work wishing that I could be on the couch doing this instead? I’m doing it! Fun! Oh shoot. That reminds me. I forgot to clean out my mini-fridge at work before I left for the two-week vacation. Oh, that’s not going to be pleasant to come back to in a few days. I think there’s half of a tuna wrap waiting for me.

December 31—4:33 p.m.

My DVD player is making a whirring noise every time I hit Play on the remote and then nothing happens. I immediately wish I had a boyfriend so that he could take a look at it.

December 31—4:34 p.m.

In case you’re wondering why I’m using a DVD player like I’m some grandma or something instead of streaming a movie, it’s because I’m watching a screener. A screener is what big showbiz types like me call DVDs that we get in the mail during the holidays, just before awards season. My membership to both the Writers Guild and the Screen Actors Guild allow me to get this year’s Oscar-nominated films delivered to my door without having to do anything like sit in a movie theater with the unwashed masses who are slurping Diet Coke out of buckets.

December 31—4:37 p.m.

The DVD player is now completely dead. I continue to wish I had a boyfriend so that he could run out real quick and buy a new DVD player and then also some ice cream. No. Frozen yogurt. No. Ice cream. Definitely ice cream.

December 31—4:45 p.m.

My DVD player miraculously starts up again. It whirs like a vacuum cleaner. I
think
vacuum cleaners whir. I have a housekeeper. Don’t judge me. I immediately break up with this boyfriend in my mind. He would just take up too much room on the couch and would probably not want to watch a Julia Roberts/Meryl Streep vehicle. I’m so happy that Fake Boyfriend and I are over. Please don’t feel badly for me spending New Year’s Eve without him. Everything happens for a reason.

December 31—5:00 p.m.

I can’t quite get comfortable. I feel like I’m going to throw out a joint in my neck if I lie on a throw pillow. I decide I have earned taking a pillow from my bedroom and bringing it to the couch. In the movies people always sit up straight on the couch eating ice cream and wearing makeup when they watch movies alone. I’m keeping it real. Besides, if I were sick I would have no problem lying on the couch with my bedroom pillow. This is just like being sick—except for the being sick part. And I’m still fully dressed like an adult should be at five o’clock. This is perfectly acceptable.

December 31—5:05 p.m.

My clothes feel too restricting. Jeans don’t go with a Tempur-Pedic pillow. It’s time for pajamas. What? The sun is fully down. It’s fine. Also they’re silk and monogrammed. This remains perfectly acceptable.

December 31—6:55 p.m.

Huh? What happened? What time is it? I check my phone. Credits are rolling. There’s drool on my pillow. I fell asleep and missed the entire movie.

December 31—7:00 p.m.

I consider restarting the movie but conclude that it’s too depressing to watch
August: Osage County
by myself on New Year’s Eve. Damn it. I mean, not that it matters that it’s New Year’s Eve!

December 31—7:05 p.m.

I look at the cut-up vegetables in my refrigerator. I’m too tired from my nap to do anything with them but remain proud of myself for having what looks like a bunch of healthy food in my refrigerator.

December 31—7:06 p.m.

I eat some (fifteen) York Peppermint Pattie candies that I have left over from Christmas Eve. Chocolate is a mood booster and after that nap that felt like I entered and was swiftly ripped from a portal to death I need to boost some serotonin. Nobody said that staying home alone had to feel nihilistic. Even though it does—nobody said it
had to.

December 31—7:15 p.m.

Like a little kid after a Halloween candy binge, I have a stomachache. I wonder—could this be just from the candy or am I getting the flu? There was a sick kid at this Christmas party I went to but would it take seven whole days for the virus to have kicked in? Hey, am I the only one who remembers when The Flu just meant throwing up and having a fever? Since when did the definition change and it now refers to a severe head cold? It’s just like how I remember that “getting stoned” used to mean getting drunk. Was I just about to beat this intestinal virus but then overloading my body with sugar by eating some (fifteen) York Peppermint Patties ruined my chances? I think about how some people can binge-drink and do drugs like Molly and never seem to get sick but I’m undone by candy. Does this mean that I’m actually so healthy that I can’t process sugar anymore, or that I’m destined for an early death and this was the first warning sign? I should call people and tell them that I don’t know how long I have to live, but I don’t want to ruin their New Year’s Eve. If only I knew more like-minded people who didn’t make such a big deal out of this fucking date on the calendar, I would be able to call them without guilt and let them know that I may not be around by this time next year.

December 31—7:16 p.m.

I decide to check Instagram. My friend from college is celebrating her one-year wedding anniversary. I didn’t even know she was married. I should call her sometime. Then again, on second thought she’s the type that gets married on New Year’s Eve. That’s an annoying character flaw. I’ll just Like her photo instead. Another friend has posted a video of her daughter spinning in a circle. A lot of the parents with kids are saying they can’t stay up late like everyone else so they’re wishing everyone a happy
early
New Year. I want to write defensively, “Some of us without kids can’t stay up late either. It’s not because you’re a selfless, heroic parent—it’s because you’re forty-one.” But I don’t. But at least it’s written here. In this book.

December 31—7:30 p.m.

I read a text from a friend that says,
I’M IN THE BACK OF A CAR SERVICE. HE ALREADY HAS A TOWEL DOWN FOR DRUNK PEOPLE AND THERE HAVE BEEN THREE CAR ACCIDENTS ALREADY.
I think of how when I was a dumb twentysomething living in NYC I puked in the back of cabs many times and always claimed I had food poisoning. I would always tip twenty bucks. Now that I think about it, I don’t think that’s enough money after regurgitating a bottle of cheap wine on somebody’s floor mats. I just realized that I have no memory of what I did for New Year’s Eve in 1998 or 1999 or 2000—I bet it was fun.

December 31—8:00 p.m.

I’m back on Instagram and seeing that a lot of people I know have pets. Mostly it’s families who have cats, single women who have dogs, and lesbians who have two dogs.

December 31—8:15 p.m.

I look to my iCal. I have dinner with my friend Tami tomorrow night. I have drinks with my college ex-boyfriend on January second and a birthday party on January third. Those are three quality nights ahead of me. I should not be regretting staying in. Although I don’t want to be at a party, I don’t exactly want to be stuck on my couch either. What I would really love is to be with a rich, exotic lover who has flown me to Rio or Rome. Oh, fuck it. I don’t even care if the private plane never takes off. Just somebody have sex with me on a leather seat.

December 31—8:30 p.m.

I watch some of Anderson Cooper’s New Year’s Eve special. Footage is rolling of people in India lighting oil lamps, offering flowers, and getting purified in the mighty River Ganges. It looks nice. Way better than a bunch of idiots in Times Square wearing plastic glittery hats in the name of fun instead of a sensible wool cap in the name of not getting fucking pneumonia.
Would I ever go to India?
I wonder. If I got a first-class ticket and had a tour guide and I went to something spectacular like a New Year’s Eve celebration, I could probably handle India. I honestly have no desire to go to India, though. But shouldn’t I want to go to India if I’m as spiritual as I think? I judged a friend of mine in my head today because she puts such a high value on her career and when it’s not going well she takes up smoking cigarettes. One time she yelled at me when I suggested a way for her to relax naturally. She said, “I’m not fucking meditating.” How dare I tell someone else what to do when I won’t even go to India? But I heard sometimes tourists get so dehydrated that they die at the Delhi airport but you never hear about it—except for the one time I heard about it somewhere and then wrote it down here.