A couple of hours past midnight, when things had grown still, someone asked if we thought the experience of New Year’s Eve was representative of how the year would go. I thought about last year, how my plans fell through at the last minute because of torrential rain in Los Angeles, how distant that memory seemed now, how much had changed. To answer the question, I don’t. I think it’s a butterfly-in-a-cocoon moment. You have to wait for everything to unfold.
This year’s plans changed last minute as well. Originally I wasn’t going to drink, but instead spend a chill night at a friend’s party. As someone who looks forward to going to Whole Foods the way that some middle aged white people look forward to going to Disney, I was planning on drinking kombucha, or a mocktail (I found one for $12 at Erewhon but it was pretty much just cranberry juice and sparkling water), keeping things very anti-inflammatory, and then complaining/bragging to everyone that I’d gotten through the New Year sober. Though I’ve had arthr*t*s for ten years, it decided last year (2023! just for the record) to run wild, flaring up when I drink. God forbid a girl want to have fun! But then I wasn’t able to make it to the party and my options were slim. I was filled with the kind of melancholia that always fills me when some yearly milestone makes me aware of the rapid passing of time. Another year was slipping away and I had all this potential in my hands that I was worried would slip away too. So I went out.
My drink of choice was an espresso martini, layered in a thick cream and topped with espresso beans. I think it’s funny that I still gravitate towards coffee at bars. I’m nothing if not consistent! After that we got free flutes of champagne, made friends, forgot it was New Year’s, remembered it was New Year’s. There were balloons lining the ceiling of the bar, tangling you as you walked. Mismatched picture frames and rustic decor littered the walls. It was packed, but that’s sort of what I wanted, to drown in people. I was thinking about everyone I met, how they were like characters in a book, how I could make them into characters in a book.
I’ve been thinking a lot about limitations. My life lately is comprised of blurred days in cafes, working as a barista, or reading and writing as a customer. Anais Nin said, The hours I have spent in cafés are the only ones I call living, apart from writing, but it’s the moments outside of cafes that make me feel alive, that give me something to write about. I think of my trips to New York, teeming with late nights, alcohol, indulgence, and think yeah, that’s life. But is it? Is that really sustainable? I’m not sure if I have it in me to be a party girl, diagnosis aside. Maybe I just want an occasional pretty memory to look back on, a fantasy.
We ended the night at a friend’s, with a makeshift charcuterie board and conversation I can hardly recall now, stretching late into the new year. Everything felt familiar and new all at once. While sitting listening to my friends talk around the kitchen counter, I was thinking about how it really did feel like the end of something.
But it felt like the beginning of something too.
I’ve had my fair share of party nights back when and I now I’m beyond excited about quiet nights in with besties
I’m no party girl but once in a blue moon I do like to boogie on the dance floor with a buzz