My new year’s resolution has nothing to do with being classy and thank god for that because one of the first things I did in 2017 was walk across half of Manhattan with a pair of underwear stuck to the velcro on my umbrella.
“You didn’t,” my mother said, when I told her about the mishap over dinner.
“I did,” I insisted.
“Did a lot of people see?” she asked.
“Well,” I said. “I was coming out of Penn Station in the middle of the day, so yeah. I guess you could say a lot of people saw.”
With a kickoff like that, 2017 can only get better.
I like the saying, “It happens to the best of us,” because it really does.
For example, on New Year’s Eve, I “helped” my friend’s brother prepare dinner by reading a recipe aloud from a fancy cookbook and inserting ridiculous adjectives along the way.
“First step,” I said. “Rinse one cup of beans and place in large, decorative bowl.”
“OK,” he said as he worked. “Then what?”
I skimmed the next few sentences then cleared my throat. “Fill with water, cover and place in the refrigerator 24 hours ago,” I laughed. “Let soak overnight.”
I watched as his face contorted into the look of horror, disappointment and desperation that each of us made at least once in 2016. Then, like a man who’s learned a thing or two about perseverance (or perhaps just one who has a date he wants to impress), he picked up a towel and tossed it over one shoulder.
“Well then I guess we’re making this without the beans,” he said with a flourish.
Take that, 2016. We managed through your shit and we’re all better for it. You can keep the damn beans.
Several hours later, my friend and I had a domestic crisis of our own when we attempted to inflate an air mattress in a room barely larger than an air mattress. It was an ambitious project for two people so intoxicated that, earlier in the night, they tried to pay an Uber driver cash and argued with his navigation system as though it were an actual person. Needless to say, by the time we got the job done, both of us had fallen on top of the mattress, crawled across it and gotten pinned between it and the wall.
“There,” my friend said when we finally switched off the pump. “Done.”
Then she got up, dusted off her jeans and, with a level of clarity and self-respect than can only be reached after a raucous night out in Williamsburg, announced, “No one’s sleeping on that tonight. We’re better than this.”
I happened to agree with her, but I couldn’t help but wish she had come to this conclusion before we spent 20 minutes wrecking our manicures on an air valve.
“I seriously hate air mattresses,” she added. “I’m done with them.”
And with that, we abandoned it fully-inflated just outside her bedroom door at 4 a.m.
“We’ll just let that soak,” I said.
If there’s one question I kept getting this holiday season, it’s “Where are you heading next?”
I picked Paris for no real reason other than I saw a nonstop, one-way ticket from New York for $214. It was a decision I made in spite of my well-documented dislike of cold weather, carbohydrates and the French language.
But Paris is Paris. The city of love! Home of the baguette! Purveyors of snark! Surely, I can manage for two weeks.
Just to be sure, I asked for recommendations from the only Parisian I know – the guy I met in Hong Kong who expertly dressed the gaping foot wound that I suffered while on my way to a seafood restaurant.
“I can do you one better,” he replied. “I’ll show you around myself.”
As it turns out, he accepted a new job in Paris and is in the process of moving back from Asia this winter.
“I’m here,” he said. “To save you from disaster or deadly foot injuries. I can’t wait to see what mayhem you’ll cause.”
He’s joking. But the sad part is, he really has his work cut out for him. He hasn’t even heard my French yet.
Happy new year!!