Sunday, January 01, 2006
Nappy New Year
What is it about New Year's Day that makes me so lethargic? And no, it's not a hangover, although two years ago I did make the brilliant decision to go to IKEA hungover on New Year's Day and had to resist a strong urge to impale myself on a Kvartil. But whether my drinking has been moderate or Minnelliesque, I tend to find myself very much interested in reality television marathons and the surface of my living room couch as each progressive year begins. (This year I spent a good ten minutes of my Project Runway fixation wondering stupidly if very pregnant Heidi Klum had "really let herself go.") I sit there looking as though an Old Navy has thrown up on me and wondering if there's anything in the cabinets that might make the long, cold trip to the kitchen worthwhile, before realizing that my cabinets haven't contained more than a container of wasabi-flavored nuts that I'm sure I didn't buy and would never eat and a rather messy honey spill for months. Suffice it to say that my elaborate dinner parties with Judi Dench and the folks from The McLaughlin Group ended years ago.
What makes all of this even more odd is that I generally hate to sit still. I'm the guy who has to drum his fingers on the desk while he reads in order to stay conscious and focused and who has become familiar to state troopers everywhere through his habit of doing at least six things while driving. Sometimes during parties I randomly offer to race people. (Usually girls, and I always win.) But every year on January 1 it's like I become someone else for a day. It would take a demolition crew or a particularly chatty Barbara Walters to drive me from my home.
But regardless, I think it's lovely just to be alive and at least mildly sentient for another year. I'm excited to see what horrific new political machinations and celebrity hookups 2006 will bring.
What is it about New Year's Day that makes me so lethargic? And no, it's not a hangover, although two years ago I did make the brilliant decision to go to IKEA hungover on New Year's Day and had to resist a strong urge to impale myself on a Kvartil. But whether my drinking has been moderate or Minnelliesque, I tend to find myself very much interested in reality television marathons and the surface of my living room couch as each progressive year begins. (This year I spent a good ten minutes of my Project Runway fixation wondering stupidly if very pregnant Heidi Klum had "really let herself go.") I sit there looking as though an Old Navy has thrown up on me and wondering if there's anything in the cabinets that might make the long, cold trip to the kitchen worthwhile, before realizing that my cabinets haven't contained more than a container of wasabi-flavored nuts that I'm sure I didn't buy and would never eat and a rather messy honey spill for months. Suffice it to say that my elaborate dinner parties with Judi Dench and the folks from The McLaughlin Group ended years ago.
What makes all of this even more odd is that I generally hate to sit still. I'm the guy who has to drum his fingers on the desk while he reads in order to stay conscious and focused and who has become familiar to state troopers everywhere through his habit of doing at least six things while driving. Sometimes during parties I randomly offer to race people. (Usually girls, and I always win.) But every year on January 1 it's like I become someone else for a day. It would take a demolition crew or a particularly chatty Barbara Walters to drive me from my home.
But regardless, I think it's lovely just to be alive and at least mildly sentient for another year. I'm excited to see what horrific new political machinations and celebrity hookups 2006 will bring.
