I’ve decided to stop celebrating New Year’s. After all – what am I truly celebrating but yet another year closer to my own demise and while I know that sounds rather macabre, it happens to be at least part of the truth and since lately, I’ve been hung up on my own mortality, I don’t see any reason to celebrate.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not at all opposed to celebrations of all or any kind and even like to participate in them myself quite often, but as I sat drinking champagne last night and wearing my three-dollar New Year’s tiara (blue and silver, quite lovely), I wondered what the hell I was doing.
I have been with my husband twelve years now and I seems like yesterday that we had that incredible first kiss, I still remember the taste of it, the weight of his body on mine, how I had slipped on the grass (he was chasing me, quite literally) and how he then leaned over and kissed me.
It could have been yesterday. It does not feel at all like twelve years ago and I have to tell you, this frightens me. It seems or is a point of fact that the older you get the faster time moves and I’m not sure what to do about that other than live with it the way we all do, but must I go out and celebrate it? Yes, it’s another year with him and that is something to celebrate in my book because another year with him is a great thing and what I want forever.
What I am afraid of, and not without reason because the year has brought me some rather serious health concerns, is the fact of losing him. I’ve already decided that it’s okay if I go first – that much I can deal with, but if he leaves me here all alone (if he dies first that is, ) I have told him I will never forgive him. I’ve also told him that if there is a heaven and he gets there before me and chooses some ex girlfriend over me or someone entirely new (he was hardly reassuring on this front and offered up, “Well, it is heaven after all…,”) that I could kill him except I can’t because he’d already be dead, wouldn’t he. The most I could do is stamp my foot and have my little fit and walk off to my own area of heaven, populated no doubt, by all the other angry wives who got to heaven only to find their husband living like Hugh Hefner. Why is it that the heaven I hear about – if there be such a place – is always catered to men? Why isn’t it populated with Peter Falk in his prime, ready and waiting for me, or some such thing or any other number of great men who have died and who are thus waiting. Or more, why in my house isn’t my husband, all heavenly, waiting for me? I suspect they tease, and I suspect heaven, if there be such a place, is not one where we sit around on clouds having long, philosophical discussions anyway. The truth is, none of us knows what happens next but I can tell you, I’m not eager to find out because I rather like my life on earth and although I do not like the state of the earth these days, the wars, the threat of terrorism and so on, I still like the live I’ve carved out for myself. But as for heaven…