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| Can we all just agree that this movie/these types of movies is/are terrible and stop producing them? |
It's that time of year again when we mumble along to an inexplicable Scottish song and feel compelled to kiss a complete stranger. (When I started writing this blog I thought Auld Lang Syne was in German. EMbarrassing. How could I have not caught on to the slight linguistic differences?) If you haven't been preparing for this moment for 47 years like Harry and Sally, you're probably screwed. They probably had a LOT of crappy New Year's Eve's before that, though, if it makes you feel better.
As a
side note, I have to mention something that bothers me about that
movie. It's that moment at the friends' wedding toast when they thank
Harry and Sally, because if they had found either of them 'even
remotely attractive' they'd never have ended up together. Now, I
understand that less funny people have to use deprecating humor to be
funny in speeches. Sure. But it's ludicrous that this actress, Linda
something (I'm guessing purely based on her haircut), and that guy with
the unnecessarily large mustache would be more attractive than Billy
Crystal and Meg Ryan. Anyway. Big chip on my shoulder, obviously. I love
that movie.
This blog isn't for cynics. It's more of
a warning, like that 'expiration' date they put on food. Really it's up
to you if you choose to abide. You COULD end up getting an extra week
out of that loaf of bread. I don't think I need to mention the
alternative. What I'm really addressing is that elusive night we chase
every year: the ultimate New Year's Eve. (Or as some clubs I would never
attend are now snappily dubbing it, NYE.) (Clearly the name of this
blog is ironic.)
So what constitutes the perfect night? As my favorite movie (no, not in an ironic way) The Holiday would have you believe, finding the love of your life and/or flying to England are necessary ingredients. Seeing as how we can only find the
love of our life once, this necessarily rules out 74 years, assuming we
all live to the average 75. (I'm giving all you people on that paleo
diet until 70, because there's no WAY eating bacon all the time will pay
off in the end.) Flying to England IS an option, apparently, seeing as
how five out of 10 of the most recent Facebook posts on my newsfeed have
been from abroad. When did all my friends become jet-setters??? Unfortunately, England is gray and dull unless you have
Jude Law to entertain you. And seeing as how he has lots of nannies to
entertain, he probably doesn't have time to see you. Zing! (Jude, if you
ever see this, I don't hold it against you. I have 51 New Year's Eve's
left to share if you're interested…) Also, though England is possible,
nobody wants to make that flight every year. So, sure, we're down to 73.
72: Aretha Franklin.
Since
this is the sixth paragraph, I'm gonna throw something out there now that will
cover probably 71 more holidays: family and friends. Now, don't sell
this one short. They're like the flour. They hold everything else in
your life together, but they're often overlooked. (If anybody feels the need to correct me about what really holds baked goods together, please refrain.) Nobody wants flour by
itself; it has a semi-burnt flavor and it's really dry. AND that's the
end of this analogy. Let's agree that we have the best time with
the people we love when our expectations aren't higher than the Empire
State Building. And when we don't think someone will kiss us at
midnight on the Empire State Building. This group of people can include the love of your life
too, just not on the year you meet--that year's already covered, and
it's a completely different category. Get it together. Now this whole
paragraph has me worried that I'm getting old, and I'm moving on.
So
this year, you'll enter that 'perfect' party you've been planning on.
Your expectations will be high and so will your hair. A tuxedo-clad
waiter will hand you a sparkling glass of champagne as you survey the
room, then descend the staircase (there WILL be a staircase) as a
spotlight perfectly illuminates your twinkling silver gown. You handpicked
that gunmetal silver like your life depended on it. You cross the room
and spot your friends, and begin to make your way to them, but you are
stopped by a gentle brush on your arm. It's a sharply dressed gentleman,
black shirt and white tie sharply off-setting the Australian tan and
baby blue eyes. You lock eyes and your heart drops. This is it. He says,
in that glorious accent, "I'm sorry mate, but you've left the tag on
there." You look down in horror to see that your tag is exposed,
revealing not only your carelessness but the fact that you shop at
Forever 21. But perhaps this was just a reason to talk to you? A meet-cute? You
lift your eyes from the tag to say thank you but he has moved on, arm
in arm with a brunette who is of course his girlfriend.
Oh, how quickly you've forgotten my warning.
