New Year's Eve?

Some days require introspection and self-examination more than others. Unreasonably we choose random dates on the calendar--birthdays, anniversaries of momentous occasions, and of course, the end of one year and the start of a new one.

Today is a day no different than any other. I find proof of this in the consistency of television schedules. December 31, 2007 still means Family Guy at 6:30, The Simpsons at 7:00, Scrubs at 7:30. TBS, Fox and Comedy Central will not let me spiral into absurd levels of self-scrutinizing. The same schedule as any other weekday prevails. Still, there is something ingrained in my brain about today.

The calendar tells me I must ring in the new year. I must reflect on the year past and the year to come. I must have something prolific to say about what I have done with the last 365 days and what I plan to do with the next. Today I am offered 24 hours to relive, reflect upon, and most importantly, account for the 8,760 hours of 2007. Well, here goes nothing.

2007

Best Date -- Dinner and a movie with the Sweet Boy in Cincinnati
Worst Date -- Holiday Party with the Dry Humper

Best Sex -- Mr. Bubble
Worst Sex -- The Friend of a Friend (my judgment may be clouded by my intense rage)

Best Moment -- April 3
Worst Moment -- August 6 and August 17 (tie)

And now, a year end recap in 60 seconds (approximately): got a new job, broke up with Disingenuous, restarted smoking, slept with The S, slept with coworker, fell in love with The Sweet Boy all over again, broke a tooth on a fortune cookie, slept with The Volunteer, had insomnia, slept with The Roommate, lost best friend, slept with a second coworker, briefly dated Mr. Bubble, had heart broken by The Sweet Boy all over again, reunited with best friend, got pregnant, convinced a girl at a bar to have a threesome with The Friend of a Friend and I, got a hang over, discovered pregnancy whilst drunk in a Chipotle bathroom, had an abortion, recovered, slept with The S, bought a car, fasted for 6 days, stopped sleeping with The Friend of a Friend, started sleeping with The Friend of a Friend again, got into an altercation with The Friend of a Friend and stopped seeing him altogether, quit drinking, had an anxiety attack over driving in the snow, took Ambien, went to therapy, took Xanex, had three glasses of red wine, got dry humped unwillingly for 4 hours after a holiday party, recommitted myself to not drinking, went home for Christmas, realized how important family really is to me, ate too many cookies, fixed my car, came back to DC, congratulated my mom on the second engagement of her life without feeling bitter about it, fasted for 4 days and spent New Year's Eve in my bathrobe watching tv and taking comfort in the fact that today is a regular day while simultaneously serving as the end of a hard year and a symbolic blank slate.

Happy New Year and remember to take car of yourselves, and one another.

The Rub

I'm getting a lot done these days. Baking cookies, knitting hats, shopping for, and wrapping presents. I'm impressed with my ability to fill all the hours in the day. Truthfully though, I'm pretty lonely. More than I have been in a long time. Perhaps it's because my solitude is self-imposed. At the same time, the thought of being around anyone I already know makes me want to rip off my skin. The thought of being around someone new is so exhausting that I actually took a nap after thinking about it today. It's a stalemate. A stalemate of loneliness.

And of course, no one can know how lonely I really am. There's the rub.

A Warm December

There's nothing like herbal tea, a four hour nap, knitting and VH1 to spice up an already wild Friday night. Currently, I'm booze free for three weeks now. Go me! I'm also sex free for four weeks, which is pretty incredible. I've heard that women don't miss sex after the first month, and so far, that seems to be true. That's probably more of a reflection of the quality of sex I was having than anything else. I'm like a whole new person, except, you know, mostly the same. I commenced my wild evening with the most fantastic piece of cheesecake. Cutting out liquor and replacing it with delicious desserts is probably the best idea I've had in years. What could be better?

Really the only feasible way to top the evening I've had is with a Saturday of baking low-carb cookies, Christmas shopping, looking at pictures of cats on the internet, and decimating the supply of cookies I just baked. Of course, there's a holiday party to attend and sweet, sweet rum to tempt me, but I'm confident that I'm going to make it.

At about 11:03 pm, I'm going to realize that I've become my mother and likely hit the bar like a metro bus careening through downtown, picking off pedestrians along the way. Wish me luck!

Put Your Slippers on Instead

According to my physician, who met with me for all of 15 minutes, I have "severe anxiety disorder" characterized by extreme nervousness, depressive episodes, and insomnia. Sadly, she opted to not give me Paxil or some equally sedating chemical cocktail. She did, however, refer me to a psychiatrist for some good ol' fashioned head shrinking. She also gave me sleeping pills, though not before recommending that I drink warm milk in an attempt to fall asleep. Not only is that the most disgusting proposition I've ever heard in my life, but one could reason that a person who hasn't had a decent night's sleep since April would have already tried every legal (and some illegal), over-the-counter remedy possible.

She also recommended that I stop drinking so frequently, which really isn't such a bad idea. As I continuously become increasingly nervous, guilt-ridden and socially anxious, it's more and more difficult to enjoy most social interactions. Adding booze to an already neurotic drunk dialer with verbal diarrhea is merely squirting gasoline on an already blazing fire. Recognizing my flaws, and crescendoing instability, I'm attempting to heed her advice. Not only should this, in theory, decrease the number of interactions I have to feel anxious about, but it should *hopefully* salvage the few interpersonal relationships I have that aren't entirely in ruins.

Since I have neither pharmaceutical grade anti-depressants nor Jamaican grade rum, I choose ice cream to drown my sorrows in. Rather than go out to seedy bars, meet men that are inevitably harmful to me, and drunk until my liver falls out, I plan to eat ice cream until I can feel no more. For an encore, I take an Ambien and pass out for 12 hours. It's a lot like boozing, but lacks the nasty morning after (read: dry mouth, throbbing head, waking up next to old, bald men whom I hate still wearing a thong which was only comfortable for 20 minutes, then braving the metro ride home with my tits half hanging out of what was, but is no longer, a sexy shirt). So far, the plan seems fool-proof. But what about increasing levels of thigh jiggle, you ask? For one, I easily imbibe 2,000 calories each week on liquor alone. And that's considering the fact that I drink 70 calorie rum and diet cokes. On top of that, there's all the food I eat whilst inebriated that I would never normally consume. Pizza, IHop, falafel, Tastee Diner and fries with either gravy or dutch mayo. I think that pretty much covers a pint of ice cream. Maybe two.

The only real downside I've discovered thus far is all this fucking extra time I have on my hands. This is the first weekend I can recall in many years when I did not go out or fuck someone or at least go shopping. I literally did nothing that was not responsible and productive. Apparently that takes a lot less time than being whorey and drunk. Who knew?

The goal here is to emerge with the capacity to form and maintain at least one healthy, fully functional interpersonal relationship. I have no idea how long such a process could take, but I think it'll be worth it. If I reshape myself into a person that I actually like again, then perhaps others will like me again too. I know that it used to be that way, I just forgot what it looked like. Slippers help you remember. And sweatpants. And most importantly, mint chocolate chip.