Expectations
Scattered ideas about New Year's Eve because I owe you an entry
I recently received a text that read, “You know what? I’m going into this New Year’s Eve with no expectations. Sometimes the nights where you go in not knowing what to expect are the best nights.”
This text found me a few hours deep into fantasizing, plotting, and romanticizing my own New Year plans. I got wrapped up in scripting how the night would go down to the most mundane piece of dialogue. I imagined how I’d answer the door when my friends came over for a drink. What witty thing I’d say to someone at the party that followed. Where I’d end up at the end of the night. Above all, what I would be wearing. The film on repeat in my head was sensational. Unfortunately, it was also fiction.
So far, I’ve had a nice New Year’s Eve. Lunch with old friends. A misty walk through the park. A stroll through the Metropolitan Museum sale section. Then, I fell flat on my face in the lobby of my building.
Now I sit writing an overdue newsletter on my bedroom floor, listening to Electric Light Orchestra’s greatest hits.
It’s so easy to slip into nostalgia for what this night might have been. A part of me wants to rack my brain for a way to salvage that dream. In the next two hours, I could still send a text. Make a phone call. Ignore the voice of reason telling me the fantasy never felt authentic.
It’s almost like how one of my best friends describes a disconnected date. You had fun and the small talk was fine, but in the Uber home, you get the sense that if your date were to describe your personality to a friend, they’d be dead wrong. Maybe it’s because they put you in a box or because your nerves got the best of you. Either way, you feel like a character actor in their eyes.
My ideas for New Year’s Eve were lovely, but they didn’t match the people I planned them for.
Still, I wouldn’t say expectations are all bad.
On December 31st, 2019, I wrote in my journal about how absolutely fabulous I felt. I was getting ready for a New Year’s party where I knew almost no one. I couldn’t wait to meet new people and see where the night took me. I’d put together a fantastic deep red velvet pantsuit with knock-off rhinestone-encrusted heeled boots.1
I looked good. I felt good. I wrote about how excited I was for all the surprises, new people, and unknown parties my year would have in store. I was ready to travel to Europe! I wanted to make new friends, try new things, have more sex, and emerge from my cocoon as a social butterfly. I was embracing a Carrie Bradshaw-esque2 romanticism about being young and out in the world with no one to answer to but myself.
Since this was 2020, God3 looked at these plans and had a great laugh.
I’ve been entertained by the irony of that journal entry for almost three years. I can vividly remember that version of myself, putting on eyeshadow and dancing through the hallway with a glass of Prosecco. The world was her oyster that night. That’s enough to make me smile. I didn’t get a whole year of the confidence and adventure I’d envisioned, but I did get one night of it.
This past year, my tendency to set expectations started to bite me in the ass. The pressure of romantic and personal expectations was nothing compared to that of my professional ones. I’ve held a lot of ideas about who I’m meant to be at this moment of my life - a USC graduate, a budding writer, a producer’s assistant, a New Yorker, a good friend, a single girl, an independent person, a person who lives with her parents. I’ve struggled to let all these titles coexist with the person I thought I should be by now.
I don’t think it helped that 2022 was a year of dramatic highs and lows. Some of the best and worst moments of my life happened this year (although that may only feel true because these moments are still fresh). The emotional rollercoaster has been exhausting at times but also added substance to my year. At least I can’t argue nothing happened.
I guess the point I’m struggling to make is that I don’t mind having expectations as long as I don’t get trapped in them. I’ve cried over too many self-fulfilling prophecies of doom that decree I’m incapable of the things I want. I know I’m the one who spoke these prophecies into existence. I’m also the only one keeping them alive.
Above all else, I’d like to leave these narrow definitions of myself in 2022. The notion that I’m not _____ enough is bullshit.
We all deserve to expect more from ourselves than that.
Five years ago tonight, I had the best New Year’s Eve of my twenty-three years. I walked out of a back entrance of Caroline’s comedy club into the center of Times Square ten minutes before the ball dropped. I rang in 2018 singing “New York, New York” and “Auld Lang Syne” with my best friend and almost a million other people. Our favorite comic from the show was standing behind us, and we took her lead, hugging at midnight while everyone around us made out.
New Year’s Eve in Times Square is something I’d always wanted to do, but that night was better than anything I’d imagined. It was real. As much as I love writing fiction, this New Year’s Eve I’d rather relish what is instead of what might, should, or could be.
So now I’m off to get ready. I’m going to put on some eyeshadow and a deep red velvet dress. I’m going to dance around my apartment before heading to a party where I’ll know some people. Before I leave, I’ll encourage myself to get excited for this new year. I don’t think it’ll take much convincing to believe 23 could be a great year. I’ll just remind myself that tonight anything and everything is possible. Because until time proves otherwise, it is.
Since I’m not above creating some new expectations, or better yet, aspirations for next year:
Resolutions for the Next Era (2023):
Stop over-apologizing.
Go to the dentist.
Finish Marilyn Monroe’s filmography (or at least make a decent dent).
Be an open and honest communicator.
Move out.
After writing these and five additional ones, I looked back and reflected on the resolutions I made for this year:
Resolutions from a Bygone Era (2022):
Listen more
Buy less (specifically clothes and books)
Cook more
Walk an average of 2+ miles a day.
Be happy.
I’d say I kept at least 50% of these. My walking average definitely exceeded that two-mile benchmark. I cooked a lot in the first half of the year and tried to buy fewer new books and clothes, but if we’re being honest, I still bought a lot. I feel like I can’t say whether I was a better listener this past year. Friends, you’ll have to let me know. I was happy a good amount of the time and made decisions big and small to further my happiness. I’ll look at that as a success, since simply being happy all the time is impossible.
Outfit of this Era:
Recommendations of this Era - 2022 Edition:
Movie of the year: All that Jazz
Author of the year: Nora Ephron
Album of the year: Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love (could it be anything else?)
Non-fiction book of the year: The Library Book by Susan Orlean
Travel destination of the year: Amsterdam and Texel in the Netherlands
Reminder of the year: “Don’t compare yourself”
Best advice of the year: “You should start a substack”
Notes to the Reader:
Thanks for sticking with me for the past few months! As usual, apologies for any typos - this was a time-sensitive post.
I promise to give you something with more literary merit to chew on in 2023. Until then, HAPPY NEW YEAR!
I hope everything and anything happen for you as well.
I say knock-offs because they’re meant to mimic Rihanna’s iconic Saint Laurent boots.
Mind you, this was the year I first binged Sex and the City.
Or the fates or whoever’s up there
I ate this up i love you sm<3