I’ve already bought my New Year’s dress. I know, kind of early, but I saw a mini dress covered in black sequins and I was sold. I had to have it. Not for an outing, not for someone’s birthday, not for Christmas. This dress is for New Year’s Eve night right into the afternoon of New Year’s day. I tried it on and I thought daaaamn girl, you’re gonna ring in the new year with a man on your arm looking like this. I practiced my JLo pose. You know, the one where she looks over her shoulder all seductive-like and shit with her eighth-wonder-of-the-world booty to the cameras. Okay, I admit, I could lose the beer belly. But no worries, I’ll be supah toned by then. If not I’ll keep my back to everyone the entire time. My mom broke up my daydream when she asked, “Have you tried it on yet or not?!”
Rude. Anyway, I was pleased with my purchase. On the way home, though, a thought hit me which took me aback. This is the first year, ever, in which I am looking forward to New Year’s. As long as I can remember I have dreaded the day. For me it wasn’t bidding a bitter-sweet farewell to the past year while looking forward to a new year full of wonder and amazingness and glee and lot of money. I wasn’t saying goodbye to the year that had just flown by, but to a past that wasn’t even there. What had I accomplished in the last year? Nothing. I sure as fuck wasn’t looking forward to a brand spanking new “start.” Really, what was I going to accomplish in the next year? Pssh, nothing. Who would hire me? What of value would I write? How many times would I wholeheartedly laugh? How many times would I run naked in the rain? Who would love me?
Who. Would. Love. Me.
Somewhere during the night amidst the drinks and food and poppers and giggles, that thought would creep into my brain and stick like a leech. I would try not to cry like a baby at the heartache of another year passing, another year just a mere minutes away, and not having anyone to truly celebrate with and having to pretend to be happy even though my tears could have tsunamied the damn place. No love of my life – that one who I have always wanted to be by my side – to turn to and be the first to hug with a kiss and embrace and for a minute pretend as though no one else in the world mattered as I smelled his neck. He just wasn’t there. Not on New Year’s. Not on any holiday. Not in my laundry-raking the leaves-spontaneous trip to a nice restaurant kind of day. Never.
Umm, actually…This time it is different. I have a dress. And I am saying goodbye to a year in which I accomplished a hell of a lot. I fucking made it through. Good riddance 2014. Smell ya never. This accomplishment sounds miniscule, trivial, but for me it means everything. I am also saying hello mufuckah to a new year whose ass I am going to karate chop to smithereens – hiya! A year in which I am content being alone or having twenty boy toys (yummy!). I am not just talking jazz to end this post on a heartwarming-Jackie saves the day-let’s kumbaya-find a moral to every story nonsense. I’ve made up my mind. The love of a man does not make me any better. Sure, it is nice, but it does not define me. I am alive and I love it when the cold air invades my lungs and it hurts. But I can feel it. I will write and write and not give a shit if it doesn’t even make sense. Lots of people do love me and I deserve nothing but the best. It is unnecessary to mourn over loneliness or having no job or still having a damn A-cup. No matter what my ass is JLo-awesome regardless. When I meet the mentally-deranged man of my life who will treat me with respect and love, it will be beyond awesome. When I get a job I will be the most OCD and efficient chick in the building in my biker boots. I am laughing, because I must sound so full of myself and absolutely delusional. Like, Kanye West delusional. I say such absurdities because I believe that they are in my near future.
I say them because I am finally learning to Love. Myself.