Something Slow Has Sparked Up In Me

I woke up this morning with dried blood on my toe. Middle one, left foot. Further examination of my skin, later today, yielded two pretty serious bruises. One on my right shin [from what?] and one on the back of my left thigh [attempt #1 to climb onto Rob's porch railing, which resulted in a swift tumble into the bikes tied there].

Throwing up on New Year's Eve is a tradition, now, four years running since the transition from 2006 to 2007. The transition from the worst year of my life [objectively, no contest, no other contenders] to one of the best. The best. In 2006, it was a combination of Gin Bucket and Bullshit Pyramid. 2007, I can't honestly say--Circle of Death, probably, and vodka. 2008, gin again and a midnight-countdown phone call that left me screaming gleefully into the receiver until Joey stopped me with a rather pointed, "Kiss me!"

And 2009, a mix of Svedka and Raspberry Sparkletini and a four-way-split spliff, consumed after my duties as a designated driver were finished. Then, a climb up the porch railing [attempt #2, a sign of my unwavering obstinance, was successful] and a few minutes of feeling infinite. These are the things I remember. These things, then waking up cold and shivering.

I've accepted, I think, that most years in your adult life will be classified as neither good nor bad. With a few glaring exceptions [marriages, births, promotions, graduations, divorces, layoffs], I presume that the years slip by--a healthy mixture of good and bad. The bitter and the sweet.

Still. 2009 had its share of trials: the 6-week-board-studying-insanity tour, a bad grade or two that left me crying and frustrated on the living room floor, a serious adjustment to a new lab mentor.

But it has more than its share of beautiful hazy nights: a wine tasting that ended in a constant supply of offered elbows, a birthday celebration in a now-defunct restaurant and the drive home with the wind in my hair. Nights of sipping out of other people's drinks and the leaning in of our bodies, the alcohol functioning as magnets that draw us in to each other. Six months of non-stop laughter, of having my elbows eaten and my feet tickled until I can't breathe. Thousands of text messages and an endless number of pictures taken surreptitiously. I found them the next day--

[still life with the gay boy who would later have his face buried in my breasts]

And that was it. A whole year of staggering beauty, warm nights and cold drinks, and offered elbows on uneven streets.

And at the end of the year, several presents marked To or From Jenny and Joey. Christmas wishes from friends I didn't know January 1 of 2009. A baby in my arms with a thumb in his mouth and a powdering of snow. A deep satisfying breath in and out.

***

"You're pretty," she says, more-than-half lit. I don't know if this makes her more honest or less. Maybe I don't care. I don't often feel pretty in public--but sometimes (straightened hair, favorite high heels) I can maybe see it.

At the end of the year, I sometimes feel pretty. And sometimes hurt or overwhelmed. Sometimes filled with soul-shattering longing. Sometimes blessed and fulfilled. Sometimes invincible.

Always loved.

***

2010 has started. A new decade we all cried, after the countdown and one quite special midnight kiss. Today it rained and I ate soup, curled under blankets and read, lit a candle and drove to the movies choking on my own laughter.

I don't really have resolutions, just things I'd like to do. Go in early to the lab 2 or 3 days a week to stay on top of the immense body of scientific literature. Write letters--by hand, in pen on typing paper--to Roberto. Write, period--write more, write with intensity and purpose. Stay on top of things here. Listen to more new music. Drink more hot tea and less cafe mochas.

Touch people and be touched. Laugh fiercely. Love fiercely. Fall into nights the way I have this year.

In fact, if this next year is anywhere near this past, then it will be a perfect success. So let's crank it up and do steamrollers. Where shall we begin?