I know we’re only 4 days in, but so far, 2021 feels like I just stepped in a big hairy pile of spilled dog bowl water while making my way through a dark kitchen for my first cup of morning coffee.
One day into 2021, I found out that one of my close relatives had just tested positive for COVID (they’re reportedly doing well), and apparently, my family (sans Wifey, B, and myself) thought that it was a good idea to gather together on Christmas Eve, even though it was strongly suggested by the medical community that they don’t (they reportedly tested negative).
APPLICABLE SIDE NOTE: I highly recommend listing to Episode 9, Fire at The Beverly Hills Supper Club, from the podcast Cautionary Tales by Tim Harford. It really shows the dangers of what digging in and eschewing words of warning can do.
Two days later, we found out some BFFs also contracted and became ill with the virus and are just about to exit quarantine. That was followed by me going for groceries a few hours later and seeing close to 10 people selfishly deciding that they didn’t need to wear a mask.
[insert heavy sigh and head-shaking here]
I shouldn’t hate on 2021; I mean, it hasn’t had the best start, but it has a lot of pressure on its shoulders.
I can see ’21 sitting in its dressing room on New Year’s Eve as some guy no one has ever heard of, and a bloated and crazy Mariah Carey count down the last minutes of 2020. It’s nervously rocking back and forth, dividing its attention between making sure it has all the months in order, gawking at Mariah Carey’s massive fake boobs on the nearby monitor, and muttering, “don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020… .”
Then, as the guy no one ever heard of, Mariah, and her two boobs count down the final seconds of 2020, ’21 stands up, waits for the cue, heads towards the stage, and promptly trips and lands face-first on the floor at the feet of the guy no one ever heard of and Mariah Carey. Well, at least it assumes it’s Mariah Carey; from its perspective on the floor, all it sees is massive under boob ensconced in a sparkly dress and a whole lot of craziness.
2021 will be just fine; it just had a wonky start. It will stand up, dust itself off, push the guy no one ever heard of out of the way, take in one last view of Mariah’s two friends, hand her a card for a good therapist, and start the year as best as it can.
2021 doesn’t want to be compared to 2020 and will confidently point out that the issues I talked of above were technically 2020 problems. I get that, so I am willing to give ’21 a chance. I mean, things will get better, but just like a case of gonorrhea, it might take a while and may include some pus-like discharge from the tip of the penis.
I will not be making any resolutions, plans, or goals for 2021. Whatever happens, happens. I don’t mean that in an I give up, bitter fatalist sort of way, but rather in a Chumbawamba, get knocked down, get up again, sort of way. I am merely accepting that I can’t control what other people say or do, and much of what happens in life is out of my control; all I can control is how I react. And I got this.