New Year’s Eve |
"Five, four, three…" |
The camera pans the crowd. Everyone is blowing on noisemakers and jumping up and down. |
"...two, one. Happy New Year!" |
Confetti flies through the night sky and air horns blow. Every person finds someone else to kiss for good luck. The cut crystal ball has dropped on Times Square. |
My husband is snoring on the couch. |
This is New Year's Eve 2007. My daughter is five months old, and my husband and I are exhausted. I kiss his forehead and turn the television off. |
"What?" he snorts. |
"Let's go to bed," I say. |
"Did I miss it?" |
"Yeah," I say, placing our champagne flutes on the counter next to the sink. |
I will wash them in the morning, I think, and I pad down the hall to our bedroom. |
There was a time when I would have been dancing at a rave on New Year's Eve, kissing the boy I was dancing with and hugging my girlfriends. A time when I would have been at a posh party in Hollywood Hills, trying to avoid being thrown into a heated pool in my little black dress. But times have changed, and I am at home, going to bed in my flannel pajamas at four minutes past midnight, and listening to my baby daughter breathe on the monitor. Life, as they say, is good. |
The New Year is a time for resolutions, and so I make one as I close my eyes. I will always remember this moment. I will always remember what it felt like to be perfectly content with a New Year's Eve spent next to my sleeping husband on the couch, my first child asleep in her crib, and a glass of cheap bubbly in my hand. |
What will your resolution be this year, and how will you keep it? |
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