Don’t Let the Door Hit You in the Butt, 2020
No New Year has ever been this happy
I’m one of those annoying people who makes plans for the upcoming year. I’ve made page-long lists of resolutions, set lofty goals, debated One Little Word.
I can’t even tell you what my goals or word were for 2020. Any intentions I had for the year got blown out of the water with my husband’s fatal heart attack in early February. Instead of thriving, I began what Katherine May describes in her new book as “wintering,” hibernating and taking care of myself. Not self-pity, exactly, but rather resting and re-gathering my strength.
My life shrank still more a month later with the pandemic. In March, my goal for 2020 officially became “live through the year.” Since then, it’s been ten months limited to a handful of friends, a lot of Netflix, baking and birdwatching at my kitchen window. I’ve worked from home. I’ve worked at the office. I’ve snuggled on the sofa with the dog. So much snuggling on the sofa with the dog. The couch was new in December 2019 and already has a dent where I sit.
In past New Years I’ve set the bar pretty high for myself. My word for 2019 was “shine,” and I had goals like “write a book” and “host a monthly dinner party.” I did not accomplish either one.
So in keeping with 2020’s hibernation, my goal for 2021 is small and quiet, too: another year dedicated to staying alive. I’m going to try to write more regularly, too, but really, if I keep drawing breath without assistance until December 31, 2021, I’ll call it a win.
I’m definitely planning a big bash of a party once it’s safe, don’t get me wrong. Maybe even a monthly series of glittery, festive dinners with confetti, chrysanthemums, and bottle upon bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
In the meantime, maybe I’ll write a story about a person who hosts that party (an independently-wealthy insouciant named Maggie, might live in Paris, twenty years younger and twenty pounds slimmer than me).
Goal for 2022: save up for all that Champagne.
