Most girls romanticize their wedding day.
They imagine themselves smiling big, surrounded by everyone they love.
& everyone they love is dressed like they stepped out the pages of a fashion magazine.
They see gorgeous waiters and waitresses walking by with sparkling glasses of champagne and fancy hors d'oeuvres.
White linens and music.
Shimmering lights blinking against the evening sky.
I know something is wrong with me because this more accurately describes what I anticipate every new years eve.
(My vision of my wedding is a dismal affair full of drunk Latinos I don't know who my mother insists are my relations and my gown stained with barbecue sauce while my new spouse cries in the men's room, in case you were wondering.)
I blame the movies for this romanticized idea of what new years eve should be.
Dammit, how come no one in romcoms ever sits at home drinking Andre with their divorcee mother while she eats lucky charms straight from the box and thrills you with stories of the many elderly Jewish men who hit on her at the synagogue every Saturday? Because that's fucking reality. (Or mine, at least.)
Every new years eve is destined to be staunch failure for me since I have this idea in my mind every year that this will be THE year where I look fucking radiant in my cocktail gown and sip martinis in a room full of swanky strangers who adore me. What is wrong with me?