New Year’s Eve is the only holiday that feels truly worth going all out for. I love the specificity of midnight, I relish the idea of reflecting on the good memories and preparing for better ones to come, and I thrive on the suggestion of reinvention. Each new year, though it truly means nothing, is an opportunity to try something new, learn, broaden, and seek. We don’t have to make resolutions, and I’m particularly opposed to resolutions, but we always have an opportunity to cheekily say, “New year, new me.”
Still I dared to dream. I didn’t dare tell Jessica that we were almost assuredly not getting tickets because she would have had a meltdown and gone into a psychotic and depressive episode that she might never emerge from. So, when I was bizarrely lucky enough to get a code the night before, I was extra nervous. So many didn’t get codes. I did, though. Then the morning came. Ten o’clock came. Reader, I have rarely been more afraid.
I adore them, obviously, I worship their existence, but I realized that I’m not always consciously thankful for their presence in my life. That changed yesterday when I realized Eddie might be no more. I love that behemoth of a moody feline. He’s an angel and he’s already used up three of his nine lives. I don’t ever want the last one to come. Until it does, I will love him with all my heart.