Every December it’s the same thing; my family and friends chew my ear off with cheery prognostics about the year to come.
“This year, I’m going to write a book!” says my sister.
“This year, I’ll learn to play piano!” says Mom.
“Girls, I’m going to Harvard!” says Elle.
All of which makes me seem like a Debbie Downer when I say, “This year, I’m gonna survive a global pandemic.”
At first, this year was no exception. Presents unwrapped and figgy puddings consumed, my friends started to make optimistic predictions about the calendar year to come.
“2020 will be our year,” they cheered, beaming, hugging, laughing. All of which made me seem like an asshole when I said, “Actually, I think it’ll belong to an as-of-yet undiscovered coronavirus currently circulating within the pangolin population of Eastern China.”
Instead of supporting me, I felt as though my peers were dismissive. “You say that every year,” they murmured. “Maybe just don’t come to brunch.”
I wasn’t trying to be a wet blanket; I was merely comparing their predictions with my own!
“I’m gonna travel Europe!” said Mikey.
“The transportation industry will collapse to the brink of ruin,” I said.
“I’m gonna go on a cruise!” said Patty.
“The aquatorium will be converted into a makeshift hospital,” I said.
“I’m gonna try hard in school!” said Emmy.
“Don’t,” I said.
What followed could generously be described as an “awkward silence.” But now 2020 is in full swing, and I have just one question: Who’s “really weird and maybe depressed” now??! Everyone!! But I was first!
Instead of traveling or working out, my peers are spending their time on Twitter commiserating about the end of the world, as I’ve been doing for years. Yet somehow I’m still the odd man out.
I write this not to rub it in or say “I told you so.” Lord knows there’s more important things to worry about right now (I knew this in December!). I’m just telling my story in the hopes that, this wintertime, ere the advent of the new year, perhaps we’ll be more accepting of a broad diversity of resolutions. All predictions are valid, even those based on paranoia and nihilism.
Maybe, to best prepare ourselves for 2021, we should all finally heed the omens augured by our most fucked-up friends.
