It's 10:10pm. I'm not kidding you when I tell you that my husband is snoring. Yes, s-n-o-r-i-n-g. I'm dressed in old-as-dirt, mismatched flannel pajamas. My children are coughing up a lung in their sleep, feverish with strep throat.
I'm wide awake. And bored.
I suppose I could turn on the TV and ring in the new year with Ryan Seacrest and 10 million of my closest friends in Times Square.
I wonder if I can find some streamers and kazoos in my party stash and at midnight, host a celebration for one. Or better yet, jump on the bed, blowing the kazoos and send my snoring husband through the roof. I'm laughing even now at the possibilities.
Although, if I go that route, perhaps I should at least find some clean pajamas that match.
PS: I can think back on all the new years parties I've been to over the years and you know what my conclusion is? I'm getting old. Very old.