2010 Date Odyssey

Tis the new year, the new decade, the dawning of a new era for lil Miss Matched. To be completely honest, I haven't the foggiest clue what the upcoming 365 days hold for me. I can barely create a to-do-list in regards to tomorrow's activities, let alone the moments which wait ahead. Jobless, loveless, and still searching for the perfect dining room table, truly anything may await me on the horizon. Luckily, the holiday season has given me a much needed excuse to meander around, lolly-gagging in a permanent food coma. I dash from home furnishing store to store. Ikea, West Elm, and Target have become my second homes away from my brand new abode up in the Inwood hood. DIY decor distracts me from the gnawing anxiety building up within my gut, the pang of panic which comes from uncertainty. Truly, the unknown does not mesh well with my anal retentive being. I am of the day-planner diehard variety, and when my sticky notes become sparse, my highlighted agenda barren of ink, the general aura of moi becomes a not-so-attractive shade of grumpy gray.

Yet I am absolutely determined to begin this 2010 with not a whimper but a resounding bang. Especially after the events of last night's festivities, which left me even more certain that I am now in a new stage of life, a truly grown-up gal looking to assert herself in the the world in a different light. The realization of my seemingly sudden maturity came in the form of a job which I "worked" (and I use the term very loosely) on New Year's Eve. Not being a particular fan of this holiday, I jumped at the opportunity to forego the usual debaucherous shenanigans of the holiday in order to make some spare change through a promotional job. 'Twas also fortuitous that my mom (who is in NY helping me create a tres chic new pad) was around for the evening and willing to join me on my random money-making escapade. So there is as of yet no particular main squeeze dans ma vie. Who cares if I did not have (and still have not EVER received) a New Year's kiss? (Sorry, my shipmates, but I will forego counting the three-way smooch on the open decks as we rang in '09!) Rather than sulking around, drowning glass upon glass of champagne as I wallow in a pity party for one, mums and I went on a shopping spree, decked our divine selves out in full diva regalia, and prepared for a New York New Year's to knock the socks off those measly Times Square festivities. Ryan Seacrest be damned, we were taking on the town, the world, the universe... or, as we came to discover, a bunch of grossly intoxicated, underage girls in barely-there, sparkly strapless numbers, escorted by the financial types who buy them lettuce leaves and vodka-cranberries.

I cannot go clubbing.

When did mid-twenties become ancient? I suddenly feel like a should bear the moniker "cougar", seeing as I most males there certainly entered the venue after flashing faux-identification hot off the presses. One gentleman dances with a bowl atop his moptop hair. The Jonas Brothers look-a-likes in the corner pound shot after shot of Jaeger in an attempt to fully take advantage of the open bar. Pink-bikini clad dancers slickly bump and grind atop vodka coated platforms, attempting to avoid a certain male with a leg-licking penchant. One hour in- first bathroom vomiting sighted. Slightly later- trash cans used as latrines. The dance floor becomes a slip and slide, body groping accepted as de rigueur. One knows toes shall be stepped upon without the slighest apology and the only means of obtaining a beverage is a flash of one Benjamin Franklin toward the bartendress's flustered face. My mother and are so busy being stampeded at the bar counter that the countdown is completely missed.

"What time is it?"

"Um... 12:05... so... Happy New Year?"

By 12:30, job completed, we trudge through a crowd thick as molasses in order to obtain winter wear from a coat check area reminiscent of a war zone.

Cab- Hailed. Classy, Sophisticated Party Dresses- Tossed Aside in preference to PJs. Prosecco in hand, deep breathing exercises are practiced in an attempt to begin recovery from the trauma known as the NYC Club experience. If never again entering such an area means I shall be single and celibate for the rest of my days, that is a risk I am willing to take. I prefer to keep my alcohol in my glass rather than sticking to the soles of my stilettos. And I will be damned if a man is allowed to get his grubby paws on my brand new BCBG frock (unless specifically invited to do so).

I will admit, there were a few random texts sent my way during the course of the eve which lit a spark in an otherwise dreary atmosphere. Certain witty banter passed between communication devices that left a grin upon my otherwise grouchy (but glossed) mouth. A few gentlemen caller prospects on the horizon leave me hope for the days to come. Many of these kind words arrived from the cellular devices of my match.com mates. And yet a certain someone, the one whose words let loose the (cliche) butterflies in my vodka filled tummy, is a man who unexpectedly entered my life as this past decade drew to a close. Which leaves me hope... and a knowledge that the unknown future is what makes everyday life an adventure. Onward towards 2010 my alcohol-coated (but still fabulous) stilettos now march...