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Hear your dad’s bird-clock chirp 4 p.m. and remember that you’re 28 years old and living with your parents on the weekends. Then panic because it’s already getting dark outside and you have no plans for the night because all of your single friends have been invited to a wedding inconveniently (!) scheduled on New Year’s Eve. Find yourself feeling unpopular and still depressed after watching UL play like a third-tier grade-school basketball team.
Call your best friend who is planning on driving to Cincinnati and convince her to stay in town. Promise her a night of no-pressure, impromptu trouble-making. Kiss her through the phone when she says, “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
Curse your wardrobe. Throw on the outfit you wore last weekend.. Curl your hair and stare into the mirror and tell yourself that no one else will notice your New Year’s Eve zit.
Ignore your mother’s “you look like a hussy” comment as you walk out the door to get carted away to an apartment in Smoketown.
Listen to WFPK’s Best of 2011 countdown over bourbon, and be surprised at how many of the songs you know. Feel particularly cultured for a second. Poorly paint your nails the color of Now You Sea Me, and leave to make your 8 p.m. Eiderdown [3] reservations.
Feel like Jim James when you’re immediately seated and presented with a complimentary plate of pate and a scallop dish because your buddy is banging one of the cooks. Order a bottle of La Freynelle and decide to split the best burger you’ll ever wrap your fingers around.
Be very surprised when the guy you were shamelessly flirting with two nights before walks in the door. Try not to perform cartwheels when he tells you he regretted not getting your phone number.
Go back to enjoying your dinner. Pay the tab and accompany your friend to let her dogs out. Call every cab company you know even though you’re not sure where you’re going. Give up on being anywhere by midnight because every line is busy. Grab some pots and pans and pour two shots of bourbon. Proceed to perform a two-woman drum circle… twice. Feel as if you pulled a muscle in your back after breaking a metal noodle-strainer and resolve to work out more in 2012.
Suddenly find yourself at Nach Bar drinking PBR like you’re hip. Surround yourself with glitter and flannel and boys with beards wearing tight jeans. Dance like you’re alone in your room listening to Rihanna. Discover text messages from the boy who is wondering where you are. Keep flirting with the guy your friends have warned you about, but leave him to be his own troublesome self when the recipient of your texts arrive.
Let him buy you drinks. Talk to him about New York City and how much he wants to move back to Louisville. Leave him to wonder where you are as you smoke cigarettes with strangers wearing pretty dresses who are telling you what you already know: that every girl sometimes just wants to be thrown against a wall and ravished. Go back inside and follow your fella to a party around the corner that’s in its wind-down phase.
Convince him to leave his party and spend 40 minutes walking a half-mile to Groucho’s, because you’re stopping to make-out like high schoolers every 3 minutes.
Get to Groucho’s to discover everyone you know is leaving because somehow the clock struck 4 a.m. and you’re still alive. Follow the boy back to his buddy’s house, which you soon learn has nowhere for you to lie down. Watch as he pulls cushions from another room to make a bed before a Christmas tree in the living room.
Scream, “IS THAT A DUCK?” as he says, “Yes, my friends have ducks,” and picks up said duck which had sauntered into the living room onto your makeshift bed. Wonder where the hell you are and pass out immediately upon laying down. Feel like you’re in an unsexy movie moment.
Wake up the next morning to the sounds of quacking and a snoring boy. Reach for your phone and be happy that your phone is smart and can tell you where you are. Realize you’re two blocks away from a friend with sweatpants and cable television. Decide not to spend your first waking hours of 2012 uncomfortably. Text your friend to unlock her door, and thank the boy for his kisses. Wish him the best of luck up North.
Later, take a look at the sparse and barely legible notes you took about the night and read, “I’m giving it all up to feel like this.”
Wonder what the hell that means as you lie down to nap for the third time that day, and wake up to eat cabbage, for good luck.