The first day of 2016 didn’t start out with resolutions, goals, or intentions. The only focus I was able to give was spent on a game, played with my husband and dear friend, sipping water, listening to my dogs snore, and occasionally growl at one another over food, while the afternoon sun warmed me up in our otherwise drafty older home. I needed that — to not give any energy whatsoever to anything but fake money, buying tuna boats, and accumulating said fake money from Jamie and Kathleen.
I like setting my sights on new goals as much as the next guy. Or woman. But in this new year, what feels true and good is to settle in to my life, who I am, and quit striving so hard. Does this sound cliché? Maybe.
Everyone is talking about choosing a word for 2016 — so if it feels good to settle in, then maybe my word is settle which sounds boring, and maybe a tad lazy; but, oh, I don’t know, maybe not. Then again, I drank more glasses of champagne over the last two days than I did in all of 2015, which may be contributing to my nonchalance around the topic of resolutions. (Major lightweight right here.)
In other news, we celebrated the last night of 2015 with a few friends and family doing what we do best: eating and cooking and drinking. Well, to be honest, neither Jamie nor myself are very good drinkers. But, we did an okay job of it. We ate dinner at Rococo, a restaurant in Oklahoma City owned by a man whose seeming passion for food, or at least his restaurant, feels nice. He thanked us a few times for choosing his place to eat and celebrate. He came to our table to answer any questions we had about the menu. He walked around, talking to his other guests, too. His staff seemed to love him and also their work. I hope that we are building something like this.
Afterwards, we sat around at our house, breaking in our table with whiskey, bubbles, chocolate, talk of the show The Wire, and more conversations. Harley and Marley reveled in lots of ear rubs. There were party hats and noise makers (which we used rather unenthusiastically), but as soon as the clock struck midnight, our house cleared out in under ten minutes. I was glad we made it that far. Usually, Jamie wakes me up at 11:59 with a tiny glass of bubbles under my nose, we toast, wish each other a Happy New Year, then go to sleep again. (We’re not as boring as we may sound. We just really like our sleep.)
Before bed, Jamie decided it would be a good idea to polish off the remnants of egg nog, and I of peanut M&M’s and Christmas-themed Cadbury mini eggs while starting, with bleary, bubbly-blurred eyes, Roz Chast’s memoir Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant?. I finished the book yesterday, sans fuzzy eyes and candy, and today I’m eating leftover toasted oats from our New Year’s Day brunch, while pretending, la la la!, like I don’t have to get back to our full reality in just one more day.
If you’re reading this, thank you for being here and allowing me to share.
Happy New Year, everyone.