Yes, I hate New Year's. There, I've said it! I hate it for all it's worth. I hate the noise. I hate the fireworks. I hate the hurrah. But most of all, I hate the disappointment.
At 12 years old, all I could wish for on New Year's Eve was to kiss a boy. And of course there was never one to be found. At least none that I cared to kiss. I should note here that I would have settled for ANY boy so long as he was near my age. Cuteness would have been a plus, but certainly not a necessity.
I don't know why I thought New Year's Eve was more important than any other day for a first kiss. Perhaps it was an instinctual need for renewal. Leaving the old behind, starting anew, a symbolic rebirth at the cusp of adulthood if you will. Whatever the reason, assuredly there was an extreme and needful desire to feel loved. An emotion that was scarce during my childhood.
Hidden away in my bedroom, behind closed doors, I escaped into my fantasy world many a late December afternoon. I played the scene in my mind a million times over. Just at the stroke of midnight our lips would meet in the perfect innocent kiss. Glittery confetti would rain down. We would be oblivious to the music, noise, and excitement all around us. We would ring in the new year with love and we would live happily ever after. It was just a silly girlish fantasy, but it was my fantasy and I was determined to live it.
It would be another four years before I would realize the dream though. Or at least some semblance of it. There in front of our best friend's mother, the dog, and Dick Clark, my dream was at long last a reality. But dreams aren't always meant to come true. That awkward kiss, and all it stood for, has only led to disappointment in the many years since.
The lack of glitter. The absence of fanfare. Ultimately it's brought me to a nasty realization.
I am a liar.
I tell untruths.
I don't lie to other people. Well not usually, not if I can help it.
No, I lie to myself.
I lie about how long it will take me to accomplish tasks. "I can have that afghan finished in 3 days." "I can clean this room in an hour." "I'll just check my email real quick."
I lie about when I will accomplish tasks. "I will vacuum after lunch." "I will take the the plastic to the recycling center tomorrow." "I will clean the junk room this weekend."
I lie about what tasks I will accomplish. "I will organize all of my yarn." "I will finish all my WIPs before starting another one." "I will start eating healthier this year."
I lie about the things I won't do. "I will not buy more yarn until I use what I have." "I will not leave the dishes in the sink overnight." "I won't care if you eat that chocolate cake in front of me."
But most of all, I lie about what I want for myself. My intentions are always good. "I want to get married." "I want to change jobs." "I want to buy a house." But in the end those wants lead to disappointment in one way or another.
Because of my lies I no longer make New Year's resolutions. In the past I would start out with the best of intentions. "This will be the year I loose all that weight. I'll show everyone next Christmas!" And when next Christmas comes around not only am I still my old fat self, I'm now depressed for not having met my goal. Even if I was the only one who knew of it.
So no more lies.
Nope.
None.
Nada.
I know at the end of the year I will look back, as I do every year, and think of those resolutions I didn't make; The dreams I didn't wish; The lies I didn't tell. And it will occur to me there is no escape. Whether I admit it to myself or not it is ingrained in me to wish for something better. A new start. A new life. And what time of year could be more appropriate to wish for a new beginning than the turning of the calendar? The epitome of symbology for renewed hope.
And as tempting as hope is, I resist.
And I remain a liar.
