Let's do this, 2013

2013 is going to be my year. I know I've said this before (and probably every year since I could talk), but 2013 is the year. THE year. 

If you're a close reader of this blog or have ever actually met me, even for 20 minutes, you might think I'm prone to such grand proclamations, and you may also be wondering how some of those past resolutions are working out. Well, I'm not 33 for another two months! Get off my back! You never know what could happen, especially since this is the year of my romantic comedy. I'm certain of it.

I am moving on New Year's Eve. You might be thinking, "Wow, that sounds horrible," and you would be right. But, also, wouldn't it be the beginning to a perfect romantic comedy?! The single girl spends New Year's Eve just she and her movers while fielding calls from all the fabulous out-of-town parties all  of her friends are enjoying, drinking champagne alone and unpacking after her movers dump her stuff and leave. 

Sounds sad and lonely, right? But also and exciting and new? Maybe? Like the beginning of every chick flick! 

Options for how this will play out in the movie version of my life:

• I'll burn effigies to all the bad I want to leave in 2012 to start afresh in 2013!
• I'll end up passed out at 11:30, in bed surrounded by 5 empty champagne bottles with chocolate cake smeared all over my face and pillow (this may be the most likely way the evening plays out)
• The next morning I'll stumble to the trash chute, cake stuck to my hair, trash bag clanking with the unmistakable sounds of multiple empty booze bottles, all from me, and make quite the impression on my new neighbors who will inevitably be on their way to a New Year's church service, bright and early
• A few new neighbors—super hot guys, of course—will come knocking on my door on their way home from a cool party because they hear music and loud singing along, assuming they've stumbled into a rocking apartment party, only to find just me dancing on top of my dining table in my underwear, singing into a champagne bottle
• Or—fingers crossed—I'll emerge from the building in the morning, shielding my eyes from the blazing sun wondering why it's so freaking bright and how the traffic got so, so loud. Maybe I'll stumble backwards a step or two as I adjust to "outside" (let's be real, this part is inevitable, not the fingers-crossed part. I'm getting to the part we're hoping for), just as a really cute guy walks up the steps (here we go!). Maybe he catches me in my stumble. Either way, he pulls out two breakfast sandwiches, saying something like, "I always get more than I can eat, and you look like you might need this more than I do!" Then, laughing with me, he invites me to eat our breakfast together, and we fall madly in love. 

I have a feeling any number of these options may happen. The odds are highest for the most embarrassing or pathetic of them, of course! I'll keep you posted.