January: Ghosts of New Years Past

Ah, New Year's Eve.
Forget the Top Ten count-downs, the resolutions, the predictions of doom. We all know what the night is really about - champagne, midnight, and a vague hope that the night will bring something unforgettable. So there we were, 2009. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6 away from a shiny new decade. Surrounded by our favorite people: old friends, new friends, good drinking buddies, the girls who like our dresses, the old men who dance like no one is watching; we are all waiting. Some of us might even be holding our breath. So much expectation and preparation - new dresses, new shoes. Where to go, what to do, who to see. Hit the ATM, fill the flask, stash a six-pack in the trunk of the car...Most of us are half-drunk and dancing and waiting impatiently for that mythical second; when it's suddenly midnight, and everything changes. We toast, we kiss, the band starts playing again... No one experienced an epiphany (at least not visibly), but everyone's having a good time, and now we can all get properly hammered. It's New Years....and tomorrow we have to start being good, no more sweets or mashed potatoes, it's time for gym memberships, self-improvement, and a little self-torture. But that can all wait until tomorrow. For now, we dance, and make a few good memories.

I remember New Years Eve in 1999. Well, sort of. I was still in high school, trapped at home with my parents; upright citizens who knew better than to trust teenagers on a night where people are encouraged (and expected) to get intoxicated. Ok. Well. In all honesty, I was probably at home because I had nothing better to do. I was one of those teenagers who rarely gave her parents any real trouble (that was my sister's job). It pains me to admit it, but I loved school. Quite the little over-achiever, I went the AP route, was horribly embarrassed I was in Algebra and not Trigonometry, made the honor roll. I went to study groups where we actually studied. I planned to study early childhood development and get my teaching credential, marry at 21, and have two children before 26.

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't perfect, nor was I a complete outcast. I remember a few instances of "spending the night at a girlfriends house," drinking Boone's and smoking Virginia Slims in random living rooms and backyards. I remember fighting with my dad about boys and curfews, taking off with my cousin's girlfriend and meeting some random boys at Logan's Roadhouse, somehow coming home at 2:00 a.m. (Thus inspiring my mother to whisper-scream: "What do you think this is, Prom Night?") But those moments of rebellion were few and brief, and for the most part, I plugged away, my nose buried in a book, trying to get straight A's and make my parents happy.

And this is where I found myself, a few minutes before midnight on 1999: Eighteen , skinny, and bleach blonde; laying on my parent's couch in a small town, in what felt like the middle of nowhere. Probably listening to that Prince song, back when he was still "the artist formerly known as Prince." I wasn't worried about y2k, I didn't care about the significance of a new millennium. I was hatching an escape plan.

Being a bookworm can sometimes make you feel like you are living a double life. On the surface, you may be shy, you might be easily overlooked. You might be the girl people only remember when it's time to choose groups for a class project, or when they need someone's homework to copy. Maybe, like me, you were gripped by social anxiety that made it so impossible to connect with people that you were sometimes thought of as a snob. So there is the You that wanders through school with your eyes on your shoes, standing around awkwardly in groups wishing you could say what's on your mind. Then there is the You in your head. The You who wants run away and move to San Francisco to live like a Bohemian, sharing cigarettes, espresso and exotic ideas with eccentric people in cafes that smell like soup and Tolstoy. The You who wants to write novels and paint, the You who wants to have a dramatic love-affair with someone who stands in the rain and swears they love you while you throw their things out the window. There is the You who wants to sing on a stage in a dark smoky room, a single spotlight and black dress. There is the You who does not want to be invisible, the You who does not want a split-level ranch and a minivan. So, at midnight, 1999, I closed my eyes and resolved to never drive a minivan, to leave my hometown as soon as humanly p0ssible, and to become a completely different person.

Imagine my surprise when I open my eyes after ten years of college and other distractions, and find myself a few seconds after midnight in 2010: Twenty-eight, brunette, un-skinny. Digital camera in hand, in a smoky club in Fairfax, California. Surrounded by some of the most amazing, talented, creative people I have ever met, scandalizing my family by living in sin with my dread-locked musician boyfriend. Not a teacher; though I do have my credential. I drive a station wagon and lead a double life; mild-mannered office assistant by day, I am punctual (usually), dependable, and I type 85 words per minute (with mistakes). By night, party planner, digital graphic explorer, band girlfriend/flier maker/photographer/ gear schlepper. In a dramatic love affair with a spicy, creative man, but so far nothing has been thrown out the window. And once or twice, I even stood on stage in a black dress.

So, imagine my surprise, to open my eyes and find myself.