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Today was the day of the big annual wake-up call: Little Ela fills in a form for the first time of the year, sets the date and… ouch… realizes the hard way that apparently, not only her 22-year-old brain gave up working a bit before its time but more obviously also 2008 went into early retirement. In short: The shrivelled bank assistant who made me fill in this form had to tell me (patiently as if I wasn’t the hundredth moron she had to advice today) that I was dumb enough to add the wrong number at the end of the year. Thank you, new year, for reminding me just after Christmas when gift budgets are used up that I would be in despairing need of Dr. Kawashima’s Brain Training…

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So is this what New Year’s Eves are for? To remind me annually that my legs may be young enough to have to give up bus seats to old ladies and their stupid Chihuahuas but that my brain is still too old to count from 8 to 9? Well thanks to Pope Gregory XII that thought he was hell of a smart ass to launch this thing called Gregorian calendar, but there would have been definitely simpler ways to tell my brain functions that they were useless! I know, I shouldn’t be talking in this way to a deceased and least to a Saint, but I sort of happen to become a stronger New Year’s Eve hater with every other changing of number at the end of the year.

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You might call this weird since this night of the 31st of December is commonly considered a warm social get-together. But beside the fact that I am taken ill with premature part-time senility after every given New Year’s Eve, I can’t avoid to become a sentimental derelict on every given New Year’s Eve. This year made no exception as the following shows:
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1.    Ex-boys that didn’t know any better than choosing the same god-forsaken hole in the Swiss Alps to celebrate the end of the year

2.    Other boys that I care so much for that I want them to listen to my drunken drivel at any time instead of refusing my calls enormously unkindly at four in the morning (What a surprise? ☺)

3.    Girlfriends that drank the sort of Jägermeister that makes you maybe wanna dance on till the end of the next year but for sure not walk me home

4. Consequently of all this, I walked home on my own at around 4.00 am, got lost in a snow storm with high heels slipping longwise on the frozen snow at least 10 times before finding my friend’s front door in front of which I almost ended up slapping the most stupid German tourist the Swiss Alps have doubtlessly ever seen asking me seriously if I was being a little stressed out at the very moment…
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Yes, douchebag, I was! And just as sentimental did I become when I finally lay in bed a couple of minutes later thinking that I had just ended yet another year literally grounding… If I didn’t know better I might be scared right now that this was a bad omen for a terrible year to come, but thanks to Pope Gregory after one night of celebrating my own sinking there is normally 364 days left for me that can only get better…

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So if you ask me, New Year’s Eves are totally overrated, what really counts are the 364 there to come. Lets go for that! Very very happy 364 days in 2009 to all of you! Oh and May Pope Gregory rest in peace forever…
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Ela (cynical as hardly ever… )

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