New Years Eve Rosebuds

 We'd started dating in January and had been married in June, a rush job, you might say, without the shotgun, both of us old enough and, well, passionate enough to know what it was we wanted. We were already married six months when we spent our very first New Years' Eve together.

And we were strangers in a strange land of cacti. I'd gone swimming on Christmas Day in the apartment complex pool just to say I'd gone swimming on Christmas, because in August we'd moved from Wisconsin to Arizona, where I had enrolled in grad school and my spouse took over a second-grade classroom. In truth, we hadn't established all that many friendships in the Valley of the Sun, so when a New Year's Eve invite came we said yes, our very first New Year's party as a couple.

 Some party. I was young, still a bit heady with rebellion against the piety of my youth, so I'm sure I had in mind some rip-snortin' bacchanalia, party hats and clear plastic glasses sloshing with the devil's brew. I'm sure I was thinking that sometime, late, my new wife, dreamy-eyed, would fall into my arms and the two of us, still newlyweds really, would engage in some memorable New Years Eve rollicking.

Ja, well, didn't happen. Oddly enough, that first New Years Eve we sat at a Formica-topped kitchen table I can still see in my mind almost 40 years later, the two of us quietly listening to our host lament a dismal marriage, a union that seemed to us destined to failure. It was just the three of us. Her husband was working, as I remember--out. The dreary story went on and on, an almost endless narration of neglect and unhappiness, nary a smile, partying the night away.

And thus began an honored tradition we've lugged along painfully for most all of our married life--undistinguished, eighth-rate New Years Eve partying. It might be difficult to find people as destined for a lousy time on New Years Eve as we are. Then again, maybe not. Maybe the whole bacchanalia thing is hype. I don't know that I've ever sung "Auld Lang Syne" with arms interlocked, friends or strangers. I don't know that I've ever had much to drink, for that matter.

For the record, our 48th was no whizz-bang either. In this season of Covid, my Calvinist conscience should have kept us home; but we strayed, went to a friend's house after pledging proper social distancing. A few glasses of wine, just a few, and some quiet conversation, some laughs beside a beautiful Christmas tree that was, just like the partiers, showing its age.

Maybe you've seen the video of Arizona Governor Doug Ducey's son partying away on New Years Eve, perfectly maskless in embarrassingly tight confines. Nothing like that. Between the four of us, the average age was maybe 74. Still, with the vaccines now on the horizon and the contagion finally slipping south, we pulled a totally Republican move for a foursome of Democrats. We went out. One other couple. We gambled. We did. We had a good time. Might even say, 48 years after that first disaster, "we deserved it." 

That was six days ago, so when the posts quit, you'll know why, my official confession. 

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. Sometimes.