So I just watched my (I'm ashamed to admit) less-than-one-hundredth, more than fiftieth, teen movie. On New Year's Eve. Now, that might be an acceptable celebratory experience for the intended audience, say, a twelve-year-old (although, most twelve-year- olds have decidedly less lame lives than me). But I am twenty-four and married. And where is my husband? Playing in a PlayStation2 tournament with said highschoolers. At least its football and not one of those role-playing games, right?
When did this become the norm? Have I settled for something less than what I set out to attain? What exactly did I want from this union? These are all questions fit for pondering at a time other than 12:44 a.m. on the first day of the new year…then again, perhaps it is the best time. Let's travel back in time to some of my finer New Year's experiences (cue Wayne's World reference)
The first I can remember was spent replacing monthly specials on signs at an outdoor eatery. At midnight, because, of course, changing the signs too soon might mean a customer could order a special too early and interrupt the space-time continuum. (And just when did that phrase become a cliché, I'd like to know.) I believe that night included some kissing, but it was the confused, lovesick, uncomfortable kind. Between a girl and two guys…one of which was seven years older. But we won't stay here too long because number two is on its way.
My parents had the bright idea of getting my wisdom teeth out (all four of them, a major ordeal) over Christmas break from college. On New Year's Eve, I might add. At midnight, I saw Dick Clark's magic ball drop, then promptly made a beeline for the bathroom where I proceeded to lose what little lunch and dinner I managed to hold down. All the consequences of a New Year's hangover without any benefit from the party.
Here is the bright star night (cut the sarcasm, this is the real deal): my fiancée cooked me dinner while I prepared myself by listening to the soundtrack from Rent. We listened to Elvis Costello, watched the obligatory cheesy movie starring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, then laughed at all the crazy kooks on the news who just realized that the year 2000 had come without major cause for alarm, and that their bathtub full of distilled water was completely unnecessary.
How did the romantic man I married become such a fuddy-duddy? This question is not even worth asking, because it is based on false assumptions (some of which were, and still are, being made by me). False Assumption # 1. My husband has some sort of fascination with teen life, indicated by his choice of New Year's activity. Fact: His job involves molding and shaping the young minds of our community into something other than the thrill-seeking slobs they might otherwise be. Harsh, I know—but, I was a teenager once, and not so very long ago. # 2. I have some sort of fascination with teen life, indicated by my choice of New Year's activity. Fact: Yes, I do enjoy the occasional teen movie, because it demonstrates how much we think we would like romance to permeate life…then causes you to kick yourself for being sucked into the fantasy. No one looks like that when they wake up. People have bad breath. Arguments are not the end of the world, or the relationship. And couples cannot, I repeat, cannot be that cute in every aspect of their existence. It’s just not possible.
Am I crazy to think that one of the most romantic things he has ever done is to come home in the middle of this videogame fest and kiss me? Or to be anticipating his return as he slides into bed and we form our routine pattern of arms and legs and pillows in blissful slumber (minus the snoring, but we can't have it all, can we)? Romanticize New Year's all you want; I'll take a mildly romantic, but steady and attentive guy over what I thought I always wanted any day. If there's one piece of advice I think every girl should hear, it’s this, "Just keep looking for your 'Lloyd Dobbler'." If you want a perfect New Year, ring one in with him.