Still Hot, Why Not?
OH NO, NEW YEAR’S EVE!
Once upon a time, there was a very pretty woman. She got invited to parties on New Year’s Eve. She invited her friends, and they went as a pack. They roamed from party to party. They got seriously lit, found an all-night diner on Second Avenue and drank coffee, talking of things large and small, and medium. At dawn, they wandered home, stopping perchance to kiss.
I was that woman. I am still that woman. At least, I feel like that woman. What has changed? What has changed? I’ll tell you what has changed. I have nothing to do New Year’s Eve!!!
Is this easy to admit? No. I only tell you because I want your sympathy, and possibly an invitation. It’s humiliating. People are quick to judge. When I told my (married) friend Karen, she said, “Oh my God, you might as well plaster an L on your forehead.” She made one of those annoying buzzer sounds and added, “Loser!”
As a person who leads the examined life, I must ask myself: WHY THE FIRETRUCK DON’T I HAVE ANY FRICKIN’ THING TO DO NEW YEAR’S EVE?!?!?!? I am popular. I have friends. I go out. Hey, stop with the annoying buzzer sound: Really, I do. So what is up with the big fat blank on my dance card?
One. I am middle-aged or possibly even older, depending on how you define middle-age. I define it as the Rest of Your Life Past 40. People who are middle-aged do not give parties. They do give parties. But their parties are sedate talky affairs, where everybody sits around in comfortable shoes and has a glass of wine. And, they take place on New Year’s Day.
Two. I am female. I know I know it is so passé, so done, overdone even, to bitch and/or moan about being a woman in a man’s New Year’s Eve world, yet, the fact is this. If I were an equivalently desirable guy, I’d have 99 party invitations. Why? Desirable middle-aged men are scarce as pink panties on a hockey player. Why? Ask the Amazon Queen who has stocked her entire planet with kidnapped middle-aged men from Earth. (That’s one theory.)
I’ll do what I did last year. Man up, and spend the Eve by myself, watching TV. I’ll open a bottle of champagne, and toast myself. When the ball drops, I’ll give myself a kiss. Then, I’ll open the window, and throw myself out. When I hit the ground, making an annoying buzzer sound, I’ll spot a party going on, across the street. Wiping the L for Loser from my brow, I’ll collect my Loser girlfriends, and go.
Diana Amsterdam is a published and produced playwright, screenwriter, scribe and branding guru; and former ghost writer for the Emily Post Institute. She is the mother of two brilliant sons and five exceptional grandchildren.Email this post