The bad news: nothing last forever. The good news: nothing last forever.
J. Cole
(This is a work of fiction. Most of it, Any resemblance to real or fake persons, living, dead, or vampires is purely coincidental) .
For some people, the end of the year is a reminder of how easily the “New Years’ Resolutions” become the “What was I thinking when I wrote that.”
For others, it is an excuse to share their true or false stories, relive their experiences, or just get away from their routine.
That’s what my group of college friends and I did starting after our 20-year reunion. With that religious enthusiasm missing since my high school era, we met at a different place every December to share what we considered the highlight of our year. And this year’s “winner” was Shasta. A small town in Northern California mainly known for its mountains and UFO sightings. Yes. UFO sightings. Look it up.
The uncommonness of the location called for a different kind of self-expression, so when we decided on how to share our end-of-the-year story, we resolved to pair it with a drink that complemented the experience with wooden halls and thick carpets …
Deciding who was going to start was a challenge. We all went to law school -and even graduated- so the only way to fool into going first us was by taking us back to elementary and using alphabetical order. Alicia was screwed.
Growing up in Buffalo, New York, Alicia was a tough cookie. The no-nonsense girl you’d pick first for any sports team or ballet. That may be the reason her end-of-the-year story surprised me so much.She raised her glass of a very “Succession-like” Prosecco and, after informing us she was calling it quits with her husband, made a toast for what she baptized as “Her Sad Ending. Only sad because they didn’t end before.” And, as we spoke, she was sending his “insignificant” other a gift as a token of appreciation just for withdrawing himself from her life. No hard feelings, she said. Okay. Neither hard nor feelings.
Maybe the liquid courage by proxy or witnessing Alicia’s admission prompted Beatrice’s confession and her decision to pair it with something more, let’s say, robust. Every group of friends has a Beatrice: organized, dependable, and never gets sick. Like a human Rosie the Robot. Her Florida roots made her the Reina del Cuba Libre. After fixing herself a perfect cocktail, she proceeded to make a toast in honor of those “matters of life or death.” that did not occur. She said “I’ve faced at least four “matters of life or death” this year, and here I am. Unless you guys believe I’m a ghost who likes her Cuba Libre”. “I refuse to say that I’m older, but I’m definitely wiser. I know for a fact that almost nothing that can be discussed on the phone or read on a Whatsapp chain is a matter of life or death. Excuse me; it’s not almost: it’s nothing.”
Now all eyes were on me. I’m a very lightweight drinker, or as some would say, “a cheap date.” Nevertheless, I don’t need to drink to be my true self.
Anyways, I poured myself some of Alicia’s “Succession’s” Prosecco as a reward for finally making peace with the fact that just because mine and a crazy lady’s kids have been friends since Preschool, I didn’t have to put up with a mom whose only goal was making “One Upping” an Olympic sport. I am losing my ability to hide that mix of disdain and pity, and that will result in a, let’s say uncomfortable situation. No more Prosecco for me. Thanks,
Erin was comfortably seated by the fireplace. With a smile so splendid that it would light a cave. With that stunningly beautiful face, she raised a glass full of Kentucky Bourbon, gulped it all out, and told us about that extra effort she put into reconnecting with a former “friendquaintance,” thinking that this distancing was on her, just to confirm that her initial hunch was correct: that “friendquaitance” was a plain asshole.
Yael, our personal wallflower, was trying to hide. Taking advantage of the alphabetical order and counting on us to pass out before it was her turn. I could tell she was going through a rough patch, so I offered her some of my Venezuelan rum. She drank a first sip and told us, “I raised my glass for a situation I’d rather forget. “One that reminded me that you’re never too old for new feelings, but definitely too wise for teenagers illusions” “After this, I only hope not to confuse a again a red flag with a party skirt, and to stop holding myself to such a high standard that the idea of being outsmarted, or “downloved” never crossed my mind.” That part hurt. Maybe that’s why the verb “to hurt” has no past tense. The sentiment remains the same. People change, but only a few of them do it overnight.” “Yes, some men are assholes, but it breaks my heart realizing he was one of them”
We knew who she was talking about, but our complicit silence comforted her.
We all hugged her, in gratitude, for having each other to remind us that true love can only be found inside ourselves and in the eyes of those who truly see us.
The following day we toasted to accepting change as one of the best parts of life. To endless opportunities to start again, to decide to change paths, book genres, movies, even arrange to get into bird watching?
