|January 1, 2001
Fireworks (Televised & Otherwise)
"Remember! Whutever you're doing at the stroke of midnight on the 31st, you'll be doing a LOT in 2001. So you've gotta orchestrate a little beforehand and make certain it's something fun!"
~ Fifi OToole ~
Yeah. I know.
This is precisely the sort of dopey, manipulative ridiculousness that young, starry-eyed brides-to-be pull on their hapless young fiances, hoping to force them into a similarly gooey response. I'm embarrassed to be telling you about it, frankly. It's not dignified. It's not mature. I should have outgrown this sort of silliness at least a decade or two ago. But I figure, Whut the hell? I've waited forty-three years to be a giddy fiancee. I might as well enjoy an occasional Coy Moment or two.
(Besides. I'd at least had the good sense to postpone my Coy Moment until we were safely alone, in the quiet and the privacy of our little nest ... on a hugely significant and sentimental occasion: New Year's Eve, the transition from one millennium to the next ... rather than, say, in the middle of the Produce Department. Or in the middle of traffic. Or in the middle of anything else of pivotal importance, ifyoucatchmydrift.)
"Mmmm-hmmm," he mumbled. "My last year as a free man. Right."
His eyes never wavered from the TV screen.
OK. This wasn't exactly the gooey, sentimental response I was shooting for ... but it was a response. He knew I was there, at least. He knew I was speaking to him. He was acknowledging me, sort of. (Secra's Rule of Romance, #43,897,621: Never attempt to engage a man in meaningful conversation while he is waiting to watch stuff explode.) The important thing is that I was spending New Year's Eve, for the third year in a row, cocooned in bed with the man I love more than KFC Honey BBQ Wings, "Last of the Mohicans" and The Martian Hop, combined. The man I spent most of a lifetime searching for (and who only appeared once I'd stopped looking). The man with whom I plan to spend the next forty or fifty New Years Eves, snuggled in bed watching fireworks on TV.
I smiled and looked at the ring on my left hand. One year from right now, I said to myself, David and I will be celebrating our first married New Year's Eve.
And at that precise moment the clock struck midnight, and all of a sudden it was 2001, the beginning of the bright shiny new millennium ... and I could hear fireworks going off and crowds roaring and bells ringing, on the TV and outside our bedroom window and in my head ... and David bent down and kissed me, lingeringly ... and words just became sort of extraneous and unnecessary and impossible, for the next little while.
If Feef's homily is correct -- Whutever you're doing at the stroke of midnight on the 31st, you'll be doing a LOT in 2001 -- I guess I know what *we* will be doing a lot of in the upcoming year.
Happy New Year, Everybody!
I'm not as organized about resolutions, this year, as I've been in
years past. By this point on New Year's Day I should have a
neatly-bulleted list, as long as my arm, all about how I'm going to
give up ice cream, and walk ten miles a day, and lose so much weight
the tabloids will be whispering about me ... and how I'm going to
answer all of my e-mails the same day I receive them ... and how I'm
going to start practicing the piano again, every single
day for at least fifteen minutes ... and how I'm finally going to