Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Eight! Seven! Six! Fa-fa-fafa-fa-five!

I've been limping around like Tiny Tim for four days as a direct result of two things: Starbucks and Mariah Carey.

During the transit strike I tripped on the way into Starbucks to get a peppermint mocha which, admittedly, is what I get for giving in to froufy coffee beverages. While walking home it became apparent that I'd done some damage to myself, but after a few days I felt pretty normal.

Enter Mimi. The other night at an Oberlin reunion/housewarming party in Park Slope I was dancing in the living room to that remix of "We Belong Together" with such fervor that I aggravated the old mocha knee. She hit the high note, something popped, and my ass was on the floor.

"My knee goes a different way!" I pointed out, once or thirty times on the walk back to the subway.

You know how Barbie has those legs that you can snap into, like, three different angles? My leg is stuck in the snap between fully straight and completely bent. Which is actually a blessing, because I'm beginning to believe that the best way to ring in the new year is injured. The rest of the year can only get better from counting down to midnight on the couch with your leg propped up. There really is no further downhill to slip than drinking Red Bull at 12:02, January 1, 2006 in order to stay awake to apply frozen spinach to your extremities and watch the Law and Order marathon.

I'm not a huge fan of New Year's Eve anyway. I like Thanksgiving just fine and I'm very pro-Christmas. I've sort of made my peace with Valentine's day--at the very least, I don't have any easily thwartable expectations that February 14th is going to blow my mind. New Year's, though, tends to be an exercise in disappointment. Where Valentine's Day gives you twenty-four hours to find someone, lament someone, get all up on someone, or chop someone to bits and ingest the pieces because you just love so much, New Year's gives you ten seconds to find a person to apply your kisser to. Ten seconds!

When I was a kid, we used to have to play this game in Girl Scouts called Fruit Basket Upset. I can't remember the particulars, but it involved being divided into different fruit groups, running around until the troop leader yelled out a fruit name, and then scrambling to get all of your fellow bananas or kiwi or whatever into some kind of large fruit hug. Something even zanier! and more exciting! happened when they yelled fruit basket upset, but I can't remember what.

Anyway, the feeling I got during the ten seconds you were given to locate, gather, and embrace your fellow apples is exactly the same as the churning in my stomach when I think of the New Year's Eve countdown.

Ten! OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD I NEED A BOY OH GOD OH GOD
Nine! OH SHIT OH FUCK OH SHIT SHIT SHIT
Eight! I'M GOING TO DIE ALONE IN A HOUSE FULL OF CERAMIC RABBITS
Seven! WHERE ARE ALL THE OTHER GODDAMN BOYSENBERRIES?

And so on until midnight, at which point people make out for three or four desperate seconds, and then stumble, hangover-bound, into the New Year. I'm all for drinking, making out, confetti, yelling, and dropping massive amounts of Swarovski crystal, but all at once it's too much pressure. Until I find my pomegranate counterpart and have a sure thing midnight make-out partner, I think I'm better off on the couch with a bag of ice and Ryan Seacrest's possibly computer-generated head on TV (come on, has anyone actually seen him in person?), making vague resolutions that 2006 will, by any measurable standard, be better than 2005.

I'll accept fewer natural disasters, more burritos, greater hair volume, fewer H&M returns, longer periods during which I resist picking off my nail polish, shorter waits for the late night D train.

What I'm aiming for, though, is way, way more making out. Christian Mingle hasn't yet yielded any prospects. Is there a "Messed Up Legs Due To Mariah Carey" Bistro?

5 Comments:

Anonymous brad said...

dress it up

3:58 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Oh good! That title was just for you. And your dear Mombi.

4:39 PM  
Blogger DMo said...

Actually, my friend Andrew claims to have seen Seacrest just last week. Here's how he described him:

"It's like he's not a person at all. He looked so plastic, and not plastic in the demeaning way, but real, actual plaaaaaaaaaaaastic."

9:49 AM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Further proof!

9:58 AM  
Anonymous anonymousmom said...

hey hey whaddya say


i know i'm missing the whole point but you can take solace in the new chipped polish fashion... you prada wearin' fashionista you

4:53 PM  

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