January 1 , 2006.
"Anchor Girl"

I signed on to participate in a little project right before the New Year, as some sort of tether. To keep the continuation of my life, to keep the anticipation of new stuff all together, and in one place.

I am bristling against the idea that I should have to let go of pieces of myself in a manner that is considered timely to other people. I do what I can, when I can. I am dreading a few things, things that surprise even me. I dread other peoples' returns to normalcy, because I've been here, all along, being normal.

I think maybe that's the pulse point of holidays that can bother me: it's a period of time marked by detachment, by a departure from the routines that are engaged in the rest of the time. I don't have a solution for reconciling the void I sense around me when people are 'caught up in the season.' It's just a bit clearer now that that is some of the discomfort I feel: everyone's been taking a different train line for three weeks, and I am sitting on the same old rattly car, sans the bustling crowds and the smells of coffee and freshly-washed hair, the sound of cell phones and newspapers rustling, the slow, tired murmur of people making their way through life. I am right here, findable, a touchstone, the constant comfort.

As usual.

New year's eve passed in a pleasant way with a few old friends - Darryl, Evan, and Darryl's boyfriend Glenn. We played Karaoke Revolution and giggled our way through a bunch of songs, and I talked to Woody a bit on the phone, and we drank shiraz and champagne, and Glenn made cosmos for Darryl and worried over there being too much triple sec, and there was chips and salsa, and I sat on the couch and tucked my feet up under me and let Darryl play DJ for a while from his iPod. I believe I must now try to see Avenue Q at some point. Somehow. Evan gave me a ride to and from Glenn's place, and I think I did admirably in not talking his ear off for too long before I claimed pumpkinhood and let myself into my apartment, warm and smelling faintly of the orange marmalade candle I had burned earlier.

I was glad to be somewhere, intensely grateful for being thought of. I was thoughtful myself, tethering the old year to the new, trying to keep the transition as smooth as possible. It's just a date, it's just a new number to write on checks.

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