Gosh, you are possibly saying to yourself, this doesn't look like an all-new, all-spiffy redesign. Nope. I went back to a simpler, less table-happy format, ditched the monthly photo, and deep sixed the paragraph indents. This is a lot easier for people with ancient browsers or text-only readers, and I have decided that I'd like to make the diary more accessible to them.
So, the New Year's celebrations I was dreading last time we spoke were both fun and onerous. I always dress up for parties because I owe it to my adoring public, so I planned to wear my most glamorous and gaudy outfit to Mike and Karen's. I dragged out the gold pleated blouse, the black velvet jacket with gold trim, black velvet pants, and my glittery gold shoes. I put them on. I looked in the mirror. A Dynasty wannabe stared back at me. My shoulder pads were duking it out next to my ears. I took the outfit off. I put other things on. I took them off. I put the velvet and gold back on. I adjusted the shoulder pads. I sighed heavily.
"What's wrong with your outfit?" John asked unwisely.
"I look like Linda Evans," I replied morosely, "a pre-workout, pre-Yanni Linda Evans with medium ash brown hair, and shoulder pads the size of Delaware. This is terrible. Talk about reliving the 80's."
"You look great," John said gamely. "Very festive. Let's go."
"Nice try, Mr. Dressed-In-Five-Minutes. I still have to put makeup on." I decided to add lots of glittery eyeshadow to draw attention away from my gleaming bosom and linebacker shoulders. I ended up with a vaguely gothic head on top of my 80's body: white powdered face, shining red lips, highly defined eyes and brows, big hair. I hoped everyone was going to drink heavily. We went to the party. Everyone complimented me on my outfit. Tom Becker, the man of my dreams because he always notices what I'm wearing, thought my hair looked great. Many people petted my black velvet-clad arms and back. There were fireworks which went a long way towards reconciling me to being out after midnight. I had a nice time chatting to several of my friends. I wore a party hat. I had a glass of champagne. We went home at 1 a.m..
The next day I dragged my feet about going over to Deb and Alan's. It just seemed like so much trouble in order to see all the same people again only with hangovers. I put on my blue velvet tunic, my black velvet pants, and utterly sensible shoes which happen to look rather fabulous. I put on the day version of my gothic face. We went to the party. Everyone complimented me on my outfit. I was harangued by Art Widner for not sending him the rest of my article on Africa. I talked to Lenny Bailes animatedly about math and Xena. I fell right in the middle of the weight spectrum at the party, from scarily fat to scarily skinny. I had a nice time chatting to several of my friends. I drank a beer. We went home, where I changed into sweats, and pondered my behavior.
I shouldn't have been such a cow about it, because I did enjoy myself at both parties, but I honestly would rather have stayed home. Either I've lost my taste for constant socializing or this is just one of those seasonal disorders. Either way, I'm going to try to get rid of this chip on my shoulder. If I can get to it underneath the industrial-strength shoulder pads.
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