I had meant to write a blog post filled with optimism. “It’s a new year with no mistakes in it yet,” I wrote for the first sentence. I was asking for it, loud and clear. So far, this year has been riddled with mistakes.
We celebrated the new year at a friend’s house, playing Cards Against Humanity while we ignored Ferris Beuler’s Day Off playing in the background, lounging and laughing. “Happy New Year!” we all yelled as we watched the ball drop in Times Square on the television. I leaned in toward Brian for the traditional kiss. I took a step closer. I squished his bare toes with my sharp pointy flats.
“Ouch,” he said.
“Sorry,” I replied.
At that point, the new year was 50% mistake.
Brian and I thought we would like an adventure on our last day off, so we bundled ourselves in the car and went to LACMA. I specifically checked the website for holiday hours. It said they would be closed on the 31st, but it didn’t say anything about New Year’s Day. In my quest for holiday hours, I missed the gigantic banner at the top that said “closed Wednesdays.” I found it in all its bright, pixilated glory when we returned home. The empty parking structure should have tipped me off, but it wasn’t until the security guard at the entrance stopped us that I realized.
“Is the Tar Pits open?” I asked. Plan B
“Maybe, I don’t know,” he said. “You can check.”
So we checked. It wasn’t.
The LA Farmer’s Market (oldest farmer’s market in the US, they proudly proclaim) is a few blocks away. We walked there, and they were open. We had blueberry pie at a diner that was the best I’ve ever had – buttery crust and berries that burst as I chewed amid the sweet, dark filling. I bought a teapot and some loose-leaf Imperial Earl Gray at one of the shops. Not the regular kind, the Imperial kind. And then we walked back to the car, drove home, and fell into bed.
This morning I packed a lunch in a large Trader Joe’s bag, brown paper with convenient handles. It was a tasty one. Fusilli pasta in basil with fresh cherry tomatoes, popcorn, and a Honey Crisp apple. Dried cocoanut strips as a snack. I got to work and realized that it’s still on the floor of my living room. Evidently, I’ll be buying lunch today. I have little hope that cats won’t eat all the popcorn before I can get home tonight. Sigh.
In short, this year has been nothing but mistakes so far. I suppose that’s what I get for writing that fate-tempting sentence. There is something so tantalizing about the promise of the new year, though. The unflinching optimism that this year, surely, will be better than the one that just passed. Maybe it will even be the best one yet. The evidence might be for the contrary and still I persist in thinking I can make better the reality; when the reality is, who knows?
Casey E. Hamilton 