Many, many years ago, in a suburb not so far away, I dumped one of my college boyfriends on New Year’s Eve, right at the moment he’d picked me up to go to a party. It was a spur-of-the-moment break-up, so I had no back-up plans, and spent the rest of the night watching chick flicks on the television in my parents’ bedroom, sobbing in between spoonfuls of chocolate Hagen Daas.* Ever since then, I have approached the “holiday” with the attitude that basically it’s amateur night out in the Big Apple, so best to treat it like any other weekend evening. You make plans, you don’t make plans. Whatev. This isn’t to say I don’t harbor secret dreams to host an elegant four-course dinner party for eight, with my seven favorite people arrayed around me, in beautiful clothes, with delighted smiles on their faces and flutes of champagne in their hands as the clock strikes 12. I’m pretty sure this won’t ever happen for me, primarily because it’s logistically impossible to get my seven favorite people in one room at the same time.
This all may seem extremely off-topic, yet it leads into this: my gosh I was totally bummed when germs and fever conspired to keep me tucked in bed this New Year’s Eve, rather than pre-celebrating with my running friends at their Breakfast-for-Dinner Party, followed by actual-celebrating as we trotted through Central Park with a few thousand other whacked individuals tooting paper horns and cheering everytime the fireworks let off another snazzy bam. Once again, my New Year’s Eve involved chick flicks (“P.S. I Love You” which made me teary against my will, and “The Wedding Planner” which was so god-awful I swear I lost a few I.Q. points) and ice cream (the aforeblogged Peanut Butter with Chocolate Blobs).
However, since I was in bed by 10 PM, I got a solid 12 hours of sleep last night which means: I am no longer sick! “Healthy” is a great way to start the new year, no one’s going to argue with that. So, by 11 AM I’d eaten a handfull of grapes (out with the dairy fat! in with the fresh fruit!) and was chugging my way through the fuh-reezing cold towards the 59th Street Bridge for an out-and-back resolution run. I stayed as much as I could in the sun, where it was noticeably warmer. However, as I ran up the bridge I had no choice but to plow straight into the frigid headwind and hope my cheeks didn’t freeze and crack off. No joke, I was running as hard as I could but the wind was definitely slowing me down. My poor (gloved) fingers were numb, they didn’t warm up until 2.5 miles. I even ran with my hands in the pockets of my windbreaker for a few hundred yards.
But, by the time I’d turned around to head back, I was toasty from the tips of my index fingers all the way to the tip of my nose. Okay then! Heading back into Queens, I saw the Roosevelt Island tram come rolling towards me on its cable. I waved at the passengers, like I always do, but this time someone actually waved back! That has only ever happened one other time, over a year ago. This is an EXCELLENT sign for 2009. What it means, I have no idea. But it made me want to jump up and down and clap my hands as if I’d won the huge blue teddy bear at the carnival. (I’m a dork, but what can I say? I get excited.)
I ran the five miles faster than I’d expected, given that I was still 15% sick (a rough estimate). 46:32, for a 9:18 pace. I’ll take it, thankyouverymuch. Happy New Year, people!
* He was so not worth the tears, but what the fuck did I know? I was 19.