I think it’s the pressure to have fun that makes me fall into an anxiety-filled sinkhole on New Year’s Eve. Like, gah! You should be spending $150 to see Everclear play at the Hyatt downtown (lolz, this is real). But more reasonably, I should be at some party or pay $50 to get into a bar that I go to for free on normal days. Maybe it’s just me (it’s not), but society is telling me that it’s unacceptable to watch TV in my stretchpants with a few lady friends. And not leave the house. And drink a bottle of champagne and eat handcrafted paninis (no joke) and go to bed at 12:01 am. At least, when I’m in the city limits, it feels like that.
I hope the whimsical nature of this holiday isn’t gone for me forever. But here’s what gets me, because the only New Year’s Clark and I had where he wasn’t sick was in 2007. I went to a big gay party with my friends and dressed fancy and wore heels I could barely walk in. He was working at the Black Cat, and I left around 11:30 and got a cab there. The people working the door whisked me in and pointed me in Clark’s direction and we kissed at midnight and everything was so perfect. And then he went back to work, and I went back to the party.
And I think the reason this kills me is because, once he got sick, people (correctly) interpreted my taking-care-of-Clark actions to mean that I was the most in love with him. But that New Year’s Eve night when I breezed in for my smooch, people didn’t have anything concrete like that to go by – it was just obvious.