NYE 2K12

A little New Years Eve recap (I hear they're all the rage on the interwebs) for all of you lovelies. Which probably comes to a grand total of one person (other than me, if I'm lucky. or just me if I'm not). mooving right along.

I originally had plans to hang with a friend and have a nice notlong Pride and Prejudice viewing marathon. She had some last-minute change of family holiday plans, so I quickly came up with my new plan of action of sitting on my rear at home alone. Thrilling, I know.

The day started with a nice trip to the optometrist. Goodie. Trips to the doctor are totally notawkward, every time.  There's the nice trifecta of varied check-in/out procedures (I never can keep straight what the various receptionists expect from patients), the funfun I'll-sit-two-feet-from-you-and-pretend-to-read-this-magazine-and-notnotnoteavesdrop-on-your-conversation sitch that goes on with your fellow waiting room patrons, and (of course) the semi-stranger c a r e f u l l y examining some or all of your body parts and asking all kinds of semi- and fully-invasive questions.

During this particular trip to the optometrist, I happened to glance over to the screen while the doc was sprinting through his normal line of questioning ("any problems? any spots or flashing lights? double vision?" etc. etc. um. flashing lights? does this sitch ever play out like this: "any problems?" "nope, none." "flashing lights?" "well, yes. i had totally forgotten but now that you mention it I do see nonexistent flashing lights."? ) and saw that he clicked off a box labeled "Patient is friendly, courteous, and kind." which was one of approximately fourteen options that he could have clicked on that page. So wish I could have had a chance to speed read those allll the way at the bottom before he click-clicked onto the next screen. Glad to know he came to this conclusion from our 2 minute awkwardsauce conversation. I'm a little jittery about what a mis-click on that page could have meant for my stellar optometry charts. A fall from grace for any future eye check-ups, I'm sure. Several minutes later he mentioned that I was due to have my eyes dilated. I wasted zero seconds in turning him down. I have enough self-respect to not let myself spend NYE alone and feeling like I'm on an acid trip. If you don't understand that sentiment, I am terribly sorry.

After my little stint at the optometrist, I went to visit Grandma Zinger* in the nursing home. We unknowingly walked into a concert in the lobby that was capital-P Packed with the wheelchair gang.  He was playing and singing oldies (duh), some of which I recognized, many more of which my dad felt the need to comment  that he didn't know because they were "before [his] time!"** In the middle of the concert, the kind gentleman of a musician did a "practice countdown" to the New Year. It was not at all a "you young'uns will most definitely be in for the night snoring loudly by the time 8:00 in the p.m. rolls around" count down. Nope, definitely not.

Alas, with my one official countdown to 4:12 in the afternoon the new year under my belt, I felt relieved of my obligation as a young college student to be awake for the the actual countdown, and promptly hit the hay at the latelate hour of 10:30 in the p.m.***, party animal that I am.

Just another day in the life of your favorite geriatric 21 year-old.

* Not her real name. she earned this friendly moniker for frequently and slyly dropping gems such as "you look good in a hat" upon seeing my brother's new haircut in the course of normal conversation.

** This made me wonder...will they play gangsta rap and dubstep when our generation is of the nursing home age? Nurses of the future, I'm sorry. I'm envisioning a frequent scene in which the elder-folk ask you to "turn it up! I can't hear it!" as their dubstep pulse-pulse-pulses away and you wonder if you would be able to feel an earthquake below an 8.2 magnitude on the Richter scale. Many apologies.
***My brother came to wish me a happy new year at midnight. I was fast asleep. For some reason he was surprised by this. You'd think he was already aware of my geriatric ways. Apparently not.