My new boss replied to one of my emails tonight (er, last night?) pretty much saying he wondered why I wasn't out having fun. Um, that would be for two reasons. For one, no one invited me to a party or even just to hang out this New Years Eve. Two, because New Years Eve has never meant 'fun.' Well, last NYE was kind of fun. I was with my Grammy and watching Ryan Seacrest and Fergie host Dick Clark's New Years Rockin' Eve. But I felt about as alone as I do this year.
Lately, my mind has been solely on a previously mentioned quarterback. I know I'm being ridiculous, worrying about some guy who doesn't even know I'm alive. Trust me, I really do realize how Sixteen Candles it is of me. If only my Jake Ryan were plotting, unbeknownst to me, to "get together." Why would he though? I'm the sorry loser who sits here blogging about how much fun she's not having because no matter what, she's always out of reach of her dearest dreams. There's nothing attractive about that.
I know I should probably hold out hope that 2010 will be the year -- the year Mr. Athlete notices me and pulls me from oblivion into his world which I find so fascinating -- and a little part of me does, but the larger part is yelling that I cannot expect it to happen, that this year will be as much of a disappointment as every year before it.
I wish this (below) were outside my door tomorrow morning (er, later today), making up for the fact that I spent my New Year's Eve with my dad watching Marie Antoinette and eating Chicken-flavored Ramen noodles and drinking Artic Splash iced tea while everyone else I know was out getting drunk if not having a good time. And let's face it. Getting shitfaced would have been a lovely option given the circumstances.
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