I think about words all day. I often fall asleep piecing together sentences.
There are many words I absolutely despise, either for their spoken sound (moist and portion) or for their connotation (hate, cunt, faggot) or because I have trouble spelling them on my first attempt (julep, utensil, knowledgeable) and one out of absolute fear: sluggish.
When my beloved college mentor died, his life partner explained that he'd been feeling uncharacteristically fatigued for weeks. As Dave's energy waned, he enjoyed soaking in the tub at night, and he complained of feeling "sluggish." While conducting a bicycle safety course for campus police, he had a massive heart attack and died.
About most things, I am not superstitious. But I feel certain that suggesting I feel sluggish would cause me to keel over. And if I admitted my husband was feeling sluggish, I'd find him sprawled on the kitchen floor unresponsive the next morning.
I will say that he and I are fatigued. I can't remember the last time either of us had eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. We're moving more slowly than we used to, and going to bed earlier. We won't be watching a ball drop or toasting the new year at midnight. We're going to bed on account of being snoozy.
And that is one of my favorite words: snoozy. I say it with a little sigh. It evokes images of down pillows and a heavy comforter, curling up with a book for three minutes before my eyes start drooping.
Happy Snoozy Year.
I've never enjoyed New Year's Eve. I've had some memorable moments, like the year I celebrated with a raucous party in Maine and dove into the ocean on New Year's Day. Or the many years we hosted friends for board games, chili and fresh baked bread from noon until midnight. Those were good years.
But I hate that we're celebrating the passage of time. Time isn't real. The new year isn't really a new beginning for anything, merely a continuation of all the days before it.
When we celebrate New Year's Eve, what I hear is, "Congratulations! You are one year closer to death!"
Birthdays are not the same. A birthday gives us one day a year to celebrate each person. I celebrate your life, you celebrate mine, and thank you very much.
Why does the globe celebrate the new year? And why is it more significant than true beginnings: the solstice, an equinox, the first snow?
I'll go along with it, but I won't pretend to enjoy it. I will, however, enjoy my eggnog. From scratch, of course.
I blog rarely, because I'm busy writing books. When I do blog, I focus on writing, friendship, family, and books. Because my family's best nicknames are private, I use their birth years for shorthand: