A Warm Welcome to 2005
We went out for New Year's Eve.Women have a rich fantasy life when it comes to New Year's Eve. It's the most glamorous night of the year, when F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda (before she went insane, of course) are almost certain to stop by your table and have drinks until the New Year arrives, replete with witty conversation that could not possibly exist on any other day. And confetti.
I am the anti-glamour. I am the slouching slob with a wrinkled shirt who thinks "neatly pressed" is a basketball term. If I had written The Great Gatsby it would have been titled All That Money and You People Still Bore Me. So when I tell my wife that I will go anywhere she wants on New Year's Eve, it's because I love her greatly. Sure, I fear her, but love without fear is like--well, I have no idea whatsoever.
We arrive at the suitably posh New Year's Eve restaurant right on time--which, for us, means we're ten minutes late. In an inexplicable act of brilliance, I also manage to lose my wallet in the twenty feet between the car's glove compartment and the front door of the restaurant. I could feel the glamour as I knelt on the pavement and stared into the pitch blackness of the parking lot for fifteen minutes, searching for--my wallet, obviously.
I don't think F. Scott Fitzgerald ever lost his wallet, and if he did, he had a "hired man" to find it for him. I'm also sure that Fitzgerald's wallet didn't feature a Sanrio character, as mine does (Badtz Maru, described as "one mischievous little penguin"), although I consider it his loss, not mine. Tender is the Night would have been greatly benefited from some knee-slapping penguin antics.
After dinner Gloria wanted to go for a drink at the Four Seasons bar, quite possibly the finest hotel in the city. Sure, I was a bit underdressed, as the only tuxedo I had was worn by the penguin on my wallet, but I said I was good to go.
We reach the underground parking lot and begin following the signs. All of them. There's one about every twenty feet, explaining what's a reserved space and what isn't. As far as I can figure out, any space that already has a car in it is an "open" space, while any empty space is a "reserved" space and can't be used by the common folk, i.e., us. We drive around and around in the tight confines of the garage--an adult merry-go-round, but without the "whee"--and manage to park three times, only to find out within seconds that one of the ten signs within thirty feet of where we parked indicates that the space is "reserved."
"This is ridiculous," Gloria said. "It's ten, we can't find a parking place, and we're already yawning. Let's go home."
"I yawn at ten o'clock in the morning," I said. "I do it all the time. It's more like a hobby now."
"Let's go home," she said. "I just don't have the energy." Whether she was referring to the bar or having to talk to me, I'll never know.
On the way home I tried to lower the bar. It's an important strategy if you're married.
"I hope that didn't create unrealistic expectations for you," I said.
"What?" Gloria asked.
"I can't possible keep up the glamorous pace we set this evening," I said. "Lost wallet, driving around endlessly looking for a parking space--that kind of thrill-a-minute activity can't be sustained for an entire year."
"I know," Gloria said. "It's just like Carnivále. I've scarcely caught my breath the whole night."
"I just hope you can go back to the normal world, where we're not hobnobbing with the beautiful people."
"I'll try," she said. "You know I'll try."
Now, on January 1 with six bowl games on (three in high definition) over twelve consecutive hours, life seems grayer now. It's smaller. I only hope these six games and the eight pro games in high definition on Sunday will somehow ease my sadness. Oh, and I've got guacamole, too.
That's it, really. Women want confetti. Men want guacamole.
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