One of the promises I made to myself when my last relationship hit the skids and I watched as, one by one, all the plans we'd made for the rest of our lives together died slow deaths was that I wouldn't plan so much. I am better at keeping to this at some times then others. I am exceptionally good at keeping to this when my good friend depression is at my elbow.
I have been in New York again, futilely doing New York-y things to try and drum up more work, see friends, avoid home for reasons I can't articulate other than that it stopped feeling like home about the same time I realized it would only ever be my home and never our home, etc. Strangely, I have been very ambivalent about staying for the holiday. Yesterday afternoon and evening, I even contemplated finishing work and just driving home this afternoon despite NYE having been kind of a big deal to me in the past. It is 6:00 at night and I don't even really have plans, which is actually a great accomplishment for an over-planner trying to break the habit, if I was just trying not to plan.
But I was talking to my friend Braak, explaining that I didn't have any plans, and how part of me wanted to sort of tell all my various friends that I was going out with a different friend and then curl up on the sofa in the house of the friend with whom I am crashing with my 10-year-old bottle of wine, his cat and a movie and wallow. And then I thought, wait, that's not like me. I mean, it's sort of like me, but it's not very like me, and it's not like me on New Years, and it's not like I actually am even that depressed at this moment in time. And he said something about it not being very exciting for my first New Years in New York and I said, well, it's not. And there it was.
I spent the millennial New Years in New York, actually, celebrating with Tom (who I'd been dating for 2 years at that point). That New Years ended with me crying hysterically in the coatroom, having found out that my 2 year relationship was basically over, in the middle of which he came in to yell at me for ignoring his friends and embarrassing him in front of them. It was a great night -- so great that I successfully avoided thinking about it for 9 years and allowed it to sneak up on me again.
Anyway, so, Erica and I have since made a pact that we won't dump each other, neither of us will cry in a coatroom, we will not go anywhere that has a fucking dress code or a cover charge and we will be happy drunks tonight if it kills us. So that's the plan. I should probably find something to wear to help accomplish that. Happy New Years.