It would be the first New Year's Eve I've stayed in since 1999 turned into 2000, and I escaped all of Manhattan's Y2K threats by spending the night in the wilds of Brooklyn, far from the maddening crowd in Times Square, in the safety of the apartment of Amir, a guy I had just started dating. This year, as we once again enter a new decade, with no Y2K threat, no Amir (or a reasonable Argentine facsimile) and no must-attend party invitations, my coast is clear to make my fantasy come true.
I'm not even making any New Year's resolutions this year. Not that they usually work for me anyway. The only one I can ever remember keeping -- or even remember at all -- was the one I made as 1990 turned into 1991. I vowed never again to eat red meat, and I didn't, until several months ago when I finally gave in to Argentina's culinary obsession. So, in a way, it would be almost poetic for me to skip the resolutions in the year in which I broke the one I actually managed to honor long term.
Or perhaps it's perfect timing for a sequel. But even if I were in a resolution mood, what would I resolve not to do? I could vow to stop dating jerks, but I do that pretty much every Sunday afternoon, and by hump day, there's another one creeping into my romantic vicinity. I could stop drinking, but that would be so cliché. I could stop eating meat again, but I haven't yet begun to take full advantage of my resurgent carnivorism. Or I could continue my recent promise to throw away at least one thing every day, but would that even count?
So what's it going to be?
I got it. In 2010, my resolution is to stop making resolutions. No more limitations. This year, I get to do what I want to do, which is pretty much what I did last year, but since it's a resolution, by keeping it, I won't have anything to be guilty of.
Pass the whisky and the tall, dark and handsome stranger, please.
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