I’m not kicking 2020’s ass. I’m not going to conquer this new year. I’m almost 45 years old, so the odds are stacked against me that 2020 will contain loss and death. I might get diagnosed with something I don’t want, I could lose a parent (or a grand—by grace, I have one left), and I don’t want to sadden, scare, or curse myself by typing anymore options—but you get the point. As one friend smartly said: there’s more funerals than weddings now in our future.
I can’t beat these things; they’re the inevitable fruit of being alive. And while I admire the spirit that inspires KICK THIS YEAR’S ASS memes, I have a different take on it. I don’t want to fight with 2020—we’re going to dance.
It’ll be something of a ballet. Adagio times of grace and fluidity will be separated by andante frenzies. I’ll dance it, and I’ll do my best to keep my carriage proper—chin up, shoulders down, toes pointed and ankles loose—and I’ll keep the beat in my center. I’ll listen to the music this year gives me. I won’t waltz when it’s time to salsa.
It seems like every year in December, my social media feeds fill with fuck-yous to the outgoing calendar—So long, 2019…don’t let the door hit you in the ass—and declarations of dominance over the incoming—2020 will be my year!
They’re all your years, and the best we can do is take the lessons from each and carry them into another. Life moves fast. It’s gorgeous and fleeting. I had a friend who used to say: I wish divorce and death on those of you who know what to do with them. I don’t wish those things on any of us, but I know they’re coming: the partings, the changes, the losses. I can’t do anything to stop it. I just wish us all the quick feet needed to dance as deftly with our sorrow as we do our joy.
Come on, 2020. I’m en pointe.