Watching the Ball Drop ... Again
I was really looking forward to New Year's this year. After 20 saintly months of pregnancy and nursing, I was ready to let loose and down some serious champagne! So I made plans to go away to a fabulous hotel with my family and dance the night away.
Then suddenly I realized I was insane. What would I do with my kid? Who would watch her while I downed glasses of bubbly till midnight? A babysitter? Ha! What person in their right mind is going to stay in on New Year's to watch my kid? No one! Even if I could find someone do it, I'd have to pay them so much moolah I wouldn't be able to afford the cab fare to the restaurant.
Once I figured this out, I pouted for a couple of days and then canceled my plans. But I comforted myself with the knowledge that it's just temporary. Like diapers and spit-up, this too shall pass.
And then I had another revelation: This is how it's going to be for the next 15 years. I'm not going to be able to go out on New Year's until halfway through the next decade! I'll be almost 50 years old by the time I'm able to go out on the town to ring in the new year again. 50! I'll have to wait until my kid is old enough to be out on the town herself, at which point it'll probably be more appropriate for me to spend the holiday in front of the TV watching the ball drop with Dick Clark. (Who am I kidding? Even Ryan Seacrest will be ready to retire by then.) So I guess I'd better go return that little black dress I bought and invest in a pair of Juicy bottoms, 'cause I'm kidding myself if I think I'm going anywhere on December 31 besides bed ... by 9:45 PM.