New Year's Friggin' Eve

I almost did something today: I almost cut my hair. [Cue CSNY.] But then I looked once more in the mirror and my haywire head of grey, tan, brown and blonde (actually white) threads and I talked myself out of it. [Maybe documented below if I have the “baytsim” to post a selfie and actually leave it up.]

Why? Because I despair New Year’s Eve.

Every year, every friggin’ year, I crawl to this last day, exhausted and over hangovers. I despair every toast of champagne, every resolution made and broken, every… every hangover… I just hate the day. Why again? Because of the resolutions – resolutions that become expectations; expectations that are anticipated (kind of redundant); anticipation that becomes waiting. And I’m not a fan of waiting.

I stood at the window a lot as a child, waiting. Waiting and steaming up the glass with my rapid breathing. Waiting for my mother to return from a date. Waiting for my father to pick me up for the weekend. Waiting to wait later.

Hence, I waited a lot as a kid. I waited myself into an ulcer at age 13. I waited through high school for things to improve; I waited through college to realize myself into an existence. I waited through my 20s, trying everything – sculpting, painting, house painting, construction, writing, copy-editing, editing, then grad school in Creative Writing, Grad School in Philosophy, cater-waiting, bartending, theater lights hanging, set building, head banging, grammar school teaching, high school teaching, college teaching, acting,… – waiting for me to figure it out, reaching the 31st of December and realizing I hadn’t, and then hoping for an improved new year with the making of an unrealistic resolution that only lead to disappointment.

Then, on February 23, 2002  – as Maria, in labor for almost an entire day, full of more tenacity in each push than the sum total of my entire life’s determination, leaned into herself one last time  – I mostly gave up waiting.

And on February 23, 2002 I wanted to reverse the waiting. And now I’m 45, my daughter nears 14, and I would do anything to get all that waiting, all that hoping and anticipating, back.

Fuck New Years Eve. Screw New Year’s Day. Piss on the resolutions. Suck on the expectations. Shit on the… waiting. The drinking, the celebrating – toss it all. Treat New Year’s Day like any other. It’ll be such a relief. It is for me.

That’s why I didn’t cut my hair.

But I might cut my hair tomorrow, if Aleda will allow it. She likes making fun of my mop and bouncing my curls. I’m not sure I want to take that away from her.

[“Beytsim”? If the pic is here, I have ‘em.]