Unbridled new year
by Miss Joni Jan 8, 2003
In place of New Year"s resolutions that can be as clichÈ and meaningless as Lenten sacrifices, my friends and I make New Year"s proclamations instead. 2000, "The Year of Unbridled Hatred," was the first of these proclamations, born out of someone"s frustration with her life situation that included everything from an unsympathetic husband to a bone-thin mother and doctor, neither of whom would leave her alone about her beautiful, Rubenesque body. Of course, my friend Dan grabbed the title with gusto and passed it on to me. Together we frolicked through the new millennium, eager to try out our freshly minted permission to hate. Not quite capable of bestowing the appointed loathing upon humans or most animals, we plunged headlong into a reign of terror, unmercilessly lashing out against any objects and actions that offended our acute sense of propriety. On our list were such abominations as white shoes, anytime of year; ankle bracelets, especially when coupled with dark hosiery; the misuse of French accents when trying to make an English word appear exotic; gigantic bows strapped to adult ponytails; Lay-Z-Boy recliners and residential wall-to-wall carpeting. Of course, we were prone to spontaneously lashing out at random victims as well: people who plant artificial flowers along sidewalk borders; most houseplants; the now-defunct FOX series Ally McBeal. Show Dan an individual shopping for Fresca and pizza rolls clad only in a pair of stained sweatpants and he was bound to race back to the car, panting, "I hate it when people do that!" So successful was The Year of Unbridled Hatred that its tentacles extended far into 2001, leaving no room for other proclamations. But, tired of the energy expended on such vigorous hatred, we realized toward the end of 2002 that we had to change our path, not for the good of others, but for the ultimate and often decadent good of our own vanities. This was made evident as we sped to the mall, hellbent on one final surge of holiday shopping before Christmas. Dan had just discovered that he"d forgotten my birthday, four months earlier, and found himself struggling with the year"s theme. "After all," he reminded me, "this has been The Year of Unbridled Self-Indulgence." Dressed respectively in black cashmere and cut silk velvet, we found ourselves in one of our favorite stores, coyly fingering an array of thick woolen sweaters just aching for a snowstormy day. I urged Dan to buy one as we recounted the ways of our prurient path of self-indulgence. For Dan, this rapacious spree had sent him around the world - first to China, then to France and Italy. The rampage continued, culminating in the purchase of a cozy Butler-Tarkington home, perfect for his lacquered side chairs, vintage Viennese lamps and down-filled sofas. I, on the other hand, indulged myself only in periodic sprees. But, as every good Fundamentalist-gone-Liberal knows in the secret-most recesses of her heart, if the degree of self-indulgence is great enough, it will eventually catch up with you. After an evening of champagne and excellent conversation with a downtown socialite girlfriend, wearing cowboy boots and bias-cut chiffon, I returned home to my husband in unusually high spirits. A month later, we discovered we were expecting Baby Number Two. My sins had found me out. Reflecting on the responsibilities of new homeownership and parenthood in store for us in the new year, Dan and I realized our spree must come to an end. After deciding that buying the sweater would be one final fling, we agreed to address 2003 with an entirely different attitude. At first I lobbied for the title "The Year of Unbridled Self-Sacrifice," to atone for our sins of the past. Cautioning that such a title could cause we would-be martyrs to morph into mere shadows of our vibrantly excellent selves, Dan suggested we follow a path of Unbridled Self-Discipline. For him, such a change should be easy. Ensconced in his new, perfectly hued abode, he can tell the world NO as he sorts through paint chips and fabric samples, focusing on the task of turning his house into a home. I imagine it will be more of a challenge for me to create order in my somewhat chaotic life. But, even as I resolved to streamline, I made a beeline to the mall on the final day of the year, scooping up as much velvety and flattering maternity fashions as my bank account would allow. After all, even the most disciplined of pregnant girls have to look good.
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