My page-a-day calendar tells me it's almost time to party like it's 1999, er, 2004.
That means it's time to get my affairs in order.
Not those affairs, the affairs that involve any activity for a such a prominent day in a single gal's social calendar.
So far, here are my options:
A) Go to a party with all my married friends, hang out next to the chip-and-dip table and play some mean Trivial Pursuit (ooohh, useless information is just oozing out of my brain thanks to the practice at Christmas).
B) Round up all my single gal pals (including my friend in the red leather pants), put on the fun clothes and my pink wig and hit the bar/club scene to rub elbows and bump and grind (okay, not so keen on that second part) with every other singleton in LexVegas.
I am leaning towards B) only because of the wig factor. It's so cool, almost chin length and flippy. It's a la Kelly Osborne (in fact, some jackbag yelled out "Yo, Kelly Osborne," one time when I took it to the hip streets of Lexington.) I love playing dress up, and a wig is no better way to jerk you into a different personality.
In some ways I hate New Year's Eve. It's a night full of imposed pressure that intensifies as that second hand sweeps up towards the top of the clock. Without question, in every bar in every town in every state across the country, no, the world, people look to see just who they'll be locking lips with at the stroke of Midnight.
Some folks are lucky to walk into a bar or party, arm in arm with their spouse or significant other, full well knowing who they'll be planting a wet one on when The Ball drops.
Other folks start panting around 11:30... scanning the room for another sole soul in the room to grab and hold onto as the world welcomes the New Year. I hate that because it's just too damn familiar... I mean, really, how can you have a great kiss with someone you've only just met? My stomach starts sinking as the clock marches on, counting time and carrying the burden of bringing us through to a new year, a new challenge, a new opportunity.
Nooo, when the clock strikes midnight, regardless of the scene, I'll likely be standing alone, my heart beating with a giant thud: loud from nerves, loud from emptiness and loud from regret.
I hate New Year's Eve because of the stares I draw from those folks sharing the moment with another soul. You know, the pity glares, "Oh, Kate. Kiss my husband. Every girl needs a kiss on New Year's Eve, plus ****'s always admired your rack."
No. Not this year. I shall stand strong in my pink wig with my friend in the red leather pants, waiting for a day without so much significance.