Early on New Year’s Eve Day, 2021, my best friend jokingly asked “Are Muriel and Crankenstein drunk yet?” I replied with a photo of Muriel licking the undersize dog bed in my office as I attempted to work. After scrutinizing some of the titles on my bookshelves, he wrote “I assume the copy of Being and Nothingness is Muriel’s.”
As a kid and into my twenties, I often wondered why I was here, convinced there was a more satisfying answer than my 21-year-old parents neglecting to use birth control. I sought answers in books (including Sartre’s), movies and music, but what brought me closest to understanding why I exist — and what made me feel the most alive — was found somewhere else entirely. It was nothing I could’ve discovered on my own; first I had to fall in love.
I don’t know where I’d be today if that never happened and don’t like to think about it. But occasionally I let myself wonder whether I’d make the same decisions if given the opportunity to choose a different path. If I time-traveled to New Year’s Eve, 2008, would I excitedly tell myself “You won’t believe what’s about to happen!” Or would I caution “Don’t reply to that email”?
Sometimes I wish that I was bitter enough, or maybe smart enough, to go with the second option. But what I usually think I’d say is “You’re right that it’s not going to end well, and when that happens it will hurt more than you ever thought possible. But you have to go for it anyway.” Of greater consequence, perhaps, was New Year’s Eve of 2013. If I could magically transport myself to that night, I’d talk to someone else.
“Please tell me what’s going on,” I might plead one last time. “Don’t shut me out, don’t be ashamed, just be honest. Whatever it is, you’re not alone and I’ll help however I can. You’ll never be able to undo what you’re about to set in motion, and you’re worth so much more than this.” (That refers to subsequent events that were decidedly worse than a breakup.) It probably wouldn’t have made a difference, though, so maybe New Year’s Eve, 1991 is a better destination.
There I’d tell my parents “Things aren’t great right now and soon you’ll have to make a tough choice. Don’t second-guess yourselves about the surgery; it has to be done. But don’t tell yourselves it’s a ‘cure’ when it’s only another treatment. Take this seriously, and teach me to take it seriously, and it’ll make my life a lot easier.” Whether or not they’d listen is a crapshoot — on most New Year’s Eves back then, they were immersed in games of Trivial Pursuit with friends.
Going back to 2014 and urging myself to slow things down with Crankenstein (and to speak up more when I felt steamrolled by her schedules, problems and preferences) wouldn’t be a terrible idea. Or telling her circa 2019, “You’re right that the world is on the precipice of a horrible tragedy and that our current leadership is uniquely unqualified to deal with it. But tomorrow’s uncertainty is all the more reason to live in, and make the most of, the present.”
On New Year’s Eve, 2021, I could’ve used another dose of reality: “You know something’s wrong with you, but it’ll be another 500 days or so before you find out what it is. Don’t give up or get too sentimental about tying up loose ends — right now, you’re the only one who hears the clock ticking.” There’s undoubtedly newer, more relevant advice that I’d richly benefit from right now, but it’s only with hindsight that I’ll know what the hell it was.
I’d love to conclude this with something witty or wise, but even on better days I’m neither of those things. This, for the record, is a mediocre day: I’ve been thrown a holiday curveball in the form of a sore throat, congestion and (mild) cough. My mind’s already on the knockoff NyQuil I’ll swig after hitting ‘schedule’ on this post, and I’ll probably spend New Year’s Eve on the couch with takeout and the third season of My Life is Murder. If you’re up to anything livelier than that, please celebrate responsibly so you can have a great 2024. See you next year.