Infant Year.

The other day Rabbi referenced the upcoming new year as an "infant year" in a letter, and I couldn't agree more. After a run at last year, this infant year deserves the best dress and the best wine and the best self. Best in show. I leaned on Hilary this night, slow and heavy with tiredness from watching all of the different types of joy in the room, and I mentioned to her that I know my true self best in two separate places: one is at an art show (preferably one of my own), standing in a roomful of people and being quiet, taking it all in; and second is in the basement at Martha Street at the bottom of the stairs when I tie my "We should do this more often" apron around my waist before working my way through the night. It is only this year that I have begun to recognize whole and true and complete sides of myself. Recognizing triggers and locations and groups in which I feel particularly at ease and it is a wonderful knowing feeling.

The evening was wild, slow motion, and breakneck at the same time. Alfie and I started the night with Tara and Crawley over champagne (them) and good Italian limonata (me). We dropped them in the Exchange and beetled to the West End for a dinner party long over. We arrived, horribly late, ate cold food, drank the nice wine on the table, and left, all within thirty minutes. Then we went back to the Exchange, but making sure to drop in at the Lo Pub for a quick hello to old friends. I ended up running into Cremo and was super psyched to chill with him for a quick minute over a plate of fruit. I have known Cremo for at least seven years and it is always a pleasure to meet, talk shop, eat, catch up and then not see each other for a really long time again. We watched each other grow up and it is a nice feeling to still know him. He is one of my only close friends left who have seen that side of me (save for Amy). It was nice. I stole some orange slices (sliced in a very peculiar way considering that they for a fruit platter [peeled and cut into Stop sign shaped disks... odd, non?]) and eventually we moseyed on to the Exchange. Once there, we waltzed into the Albert like we owned the place and were kindly let in despite of the twenty dollar entrance fee. It must have been Alfie's bow tie or my five inch tuxedo heels or our charming antics arm in arm. Who knows, but he let us in without a question (which NEVER happens at that place). We did look pretty dapper for the Albert on second thought.

A few courier boys commented on my footwear knowing full well that I was the same girl who raced them at lights on their courier routes this summer. A cyclist in heels? Come on! (On a girlish side note, there is something about bike messengers that makes me weak at the knees. When they take the time to A). give you the time of day in acknowledging your presence and then B). compliment your outlandish ridiculous footwear, I just want to do a little dance, arm pump, yell "HIYAAAA" or make out with them on the spot). Sadly, none of these things happened and I just stood there smiling stupidly. Anyway, after a quick circulation around the room and a few sloppy hugs later, we looked at each other from across the room and both knew it was time to go. Ten minutes in, max. We arrived at Rabbi's in time for the unavoidable countdown. I hate the countdown, it makes me ill inside. We stood in the living room, awkwardly and counted down, half heartedly and were all relieved when it was over because we could just be normal people at a normal party again and not worry about THE COUNTDOWN anymore. Stupid.

More people kept pouring in with nice wine, cigars, dip, you name it. Kit made a mind blowing dip and at one point she, Rabbi, Hil, Meach, myself and Melissa were all circled around it, dipping like vultures. It must have looked beautiful from above: a sea of stilettos and black tights and legs for miles like a giant female tarantula. A giant, hungry tarantula. I don't know, maybe. For the rest of the night I was curled up in a couch drinking tap water out of a San Pelegrino bottle. It is hilarious how much more socially acceptable it is to hold up a bottle of Pelegrino and say "Oh, I'm not drinking tonight" when someone asks than it is to just make a face and say the same thing, sans San Pelegrino. I found it hilarious, and kept drinking tap water unruffled by my New Year's eve faux pas. NyQuil and alcohol are probably a horrible mix, so I played it cool this year.

Pretty enjoyable night considering the San Pelegrino, but sans the scandals.

I dropped off Mike's snow covered car as sober as a judge around four in the morning and was overjoyed at the sight of people running wild in the streets of my neighborhood, drunk, stupid and happy, just when I thought the entire city was asleep. I walked the dreaded four and a half block journey back to my home in a thin jacket but was wise enough to swap my towering heels for slippers when leaving the party. It must have been the water talking. I am going to be sober again next year, it was awesome.

I caught myself saying "2009, here I come" under my breath while trudging home and had to laugh. God only knows where I will be next New Year's eve--trudging through god knows what, wearing god knows what, mumbling god knows what under my breath. God knows what. Maybe; time will tell.

Until next year, Madge.