My name is Susan and I’m superstitious.
New Year’s Eve and Day are minefields for me. There are about a bajillion things that have to be done and not done or the coming year will both blow and suck.
Every year I rush around taking care of the details. This time last year, I was getting the laundry finished up and sweeping and taking out the trash. I already had money in my pocket and plans for lunch to make sure I had pork and greens and blackeyed peas.
I did all that and most of it still went to hell.
On the upside, I made new friends and kept most of the old ones, and I spent almost a month in Italy. My dear daddy didn’t die from aneurysms or surgery therefor. My bad little dog is elderly now but still chugging along. I learned to paint, or at least get the paint on the canvas.
People I know and love had catastrophic illness; some of them died. Favorite musicians and actors and other public figures who I don’t know died. The presidential election was a complete and absolute shitstorm.
So this year, today, I am not doing any of that. I’m not doing the laundry or taking out the trash. I’m going to a memorial service tomorrow instead of to a hoppin’ john, even though that might portend more deaths throughout the year. I have money in my pocket, but I always have money in my pocket.
Tomorrow, I will get up and wash a load of clothes, washing relationships down the drain be damned.
I hope that my utter disregard for my superstitions will somehow fix things, like taking a break from poker when you’re on tilt.
For all the truly wonderful things that happened in 2016, I am so grateful. I hold the rest of it in utter disbelief and await the day when we’ll all be able to look back on this time and laugh.
Happy new year to you and yours. Be tender.
Happy New Year to you too, Susan – here is to a break with the old and the freedom of what has not yet been written.