I get squirelly when I’m bored… as I wait for our New Year’s party to begin (or at least until I’m asked to start vacuuming), I thought up this little activity: write a letter to New Year’s Day. Here’s mine (and yes, it’s fictional!!!!!). Anyone else game?
AN OPEN LETTER TO NEW YEAR’S DAY
First of all, let me apologize for my behavior last night. I know that blaming the tequila is the easy way out, and you deserve better. Because Dr. Phil has taught me to live by design as opposed to living reactively, I want to take a moment to thank you for all that you’ve done for me. As you know, this time of year really takes its toll. No sooner am I done polishing off the last of the turkey salad and apologizing for the striptease with Aunt Flora’s girdle (I know that blaming Jack Daniels is the easy way out) than Christmas rears its ugly head (Christmas, or Challeleawah, or Kwanzai, or whatever those people call it that don’t believe in God but still like the egg nog and presents).
December is a month crammed with agonizing questions: which presents should I re-gift and for whom; when’s the last day I can order something from Amazon and still have it by Christmas Day; how can I outdo the Stemperelli’s and their stupid manger scene/Christmas light extravaganza? Who cares if I can’t technically “afford” the electric bill from all my inflatable Santas that light up my front lawn in Wal-Mart glory? The Stemperelli’s don’t have a Santa, not even one of those small ones they could put next to the crib. I know that blaming the bathtub gin isn’t enough to explain why I supposedly set fire to Joseph and one of the donkeys last year, but I maintain it was an accident in light of the fact that I can’t remember it. (Get it? The pun? Who says bathtub gin rots your brain?)
Your arrival is truly a blessing to us all, and not just because it marks the day the Stemperelli’s pack up their manger scene, allowing me to unplug Santa’s soul-crushing electric bill. No, you afford us the opportunity to take the rest of the week off to watch some football, bring the empties out to the curb, and hide the matches. You give us time for the montages of the famous people who died the previous year, and the hope that Dick Clark will one day be among them. Most importantly, you give us the one night where everyone else has to apologize for their actions after a long, debaucherous night of drinking.
And I don’t let them take the easy way out.
God bless you, New Year’s Day!
P.S. If you happen to know what I did with my pants last night, would you be a dove and let me know?