My first reason for self hatred today is that this ‘blog is spiraling into a tormented adolescent hell. Boo hoo, my boyfriend moved, I am tragedy incarnate, I suffer for love and writhe in the brimstone of emotion. Soon, I will begin all entries “Dear Diary… M. is sooooooo cute. It hurts when he smiles and he’s as cool as all of the other boys.” What sad emotional depths I fail to plumb each and every day in my teenage banality. I wish I still had a locker to facilitate note passing.

Oh yeah, I’m almost 40. That is pathetic.

The second reason for self hatred today is my sneaking suspicion that I ain’t right in the head. I just ain’t normal. I’ve spent the better part of the day
O B S E S S I N G
about New Year’s Eve and Day.

I hate the essence of New Year’s in that I have spent some horrible, lonely New Year’s Eves pining away in women blues agony. I think the worst of all New Year’s was the one about a decade or so ago where my boyfriend du jour told me to get ready for a very special night, wear something appropriate for downtown, be ready for wining and dining, etc. So, there I sat in my apartment biting my fingernails next to the telephone that never rang, listening at the door that never opened. Yup, he was a no show. Mind you, we had been dating for about six or seven months by then, this date was not a one off, desperate attempt to couple at the dawn of a fresh year. The next morning brought telephone calls, tears, many tears, and recriminations. The story was an unintelligible narrative that involved a toast with his brother over a glass of wine, an alledged trip to the emergency room after a tipped chair really did equal a cracked skull, just like the teachers warned, and some other pathological bullshit that strained credulity far beyond stretching.

In truth I have had some wonderful New Year’s. Last year, I was in a hot tub with strangers (except for one man, who is one of the people I have met in comedy that I consider to truly be a friend). I was sober, drinking organic ginger ale, and I felt unfettered and alive, as Joni once wrote. The year before, at least I think it was the year before, I happily ate Thai food and ice cream alone with a stack of DVDs, genuinely enjoying the rest from a tiring year. In the past, there have been parties and friends and several cold First Nights and some genuine good times.

Yet, it is the negative shitty times on which I choose to focus. And, worse, I buy into the manufactured feeling of “When Harry Met Sally” female inadequacy year after fucking year after fucking year. An average of 364 fucking days of any given year, I am hip to my lifestyle and pleased that I am not a surburban wife and mother. I revel in the choices I have made. But on fucking, godforchristlysaken New Year’s, poof, I’m a loser of epic proportions who no one will ever love. Boo fucking hoo, right?

So, this year, this turn from 2003 to 2004, M. is there. He wants to see me. We have concocted the spontaneous plan that I should fly out on New Year’s Eve and spend the weekend in California. For one of the first times in my life, I even have both the financial means and the motivation to do it. Cool, right? Movie script perfect. Cue the fucking strings all ready, because the music should goddamn swell, right? RIGHT.

Of course. M.’s a great guy. We have much fun together. We enjoy each other’s company. He is cute and funny and sensitive. He talks as much as I do.

It will be great. For once in my life it will be great to take the leap of faith and jump on a plane. Really. It will be.

But, goddamn me and my neurotic behavior. Goddamn the upbringing my mother gave me with the special sense of doom that only the guilt-ridden, shit on, downtrodden spirit of a true Irish Catholic can poetically feel whilst boohoohooing and wryly chuckling in his whiskey.

It’s a great thing. An adventure with a caring person. And, all I can do is worry about the worst.

What must it be like to get through a day and not think about losing your job, the plane going up in flames, the man greeting the plane with his beautiful wife or a dozen assorted calamities imagined around every corner.

My 2004 New Year’s resolution is to be
Alfred E. Newman: What me worry?