It's twenty-thirteen. Weren't we supposed to have flying cars by now?
New Years carries such an exotic connotation. One mention of New Years Eve conjures fabulous sparkling dresses, champagne poured until you drink yourself silly, kissing a loved one, kissing a stranger, and at the stroke of midnight: the new year. Everything becomes new.
At least, that's what I imagine what happens to people on the night of New Years Eve. Most years I spend mine on the couch with a few single friends, joking about the mishaps and misadventures of the past year, promising ourselves that next year will be better. Not a bad way to spend an evening, but when that clock hits twelve there's always a few minutes of celebration and then - "now what?"Most of the time the answer to that question is, "sweatpants and bed" (it's a wild and crazy life I lead here).
This year, I spent New Years Eve feeding some goats, eating queso, watching What to Expect When You're Expecting, and laughing at all the people freezing their tushes off in Underground Atlanta waiting for the peach to drop. It wasn't wild, and it wasn't exotic but it was a grand old time nonetheless.
Happy new year, my friends. Here's to having flying cars by the next!
