So I remember NYE last year. At some point between getting elbowed and shouldered and sandwiched between fat winter coats, I closed my eyes and thought of all the horrible things that happened in 2010; and then I wished really hard for 2011 to be better, and and made a vehement resolution to become a better person.

To spend less, and be more conscientious about my savings. To not hurt people on a whim. To become less of a sensitive bitch, and take things a lot less seriously. To do things I loved to do.

I think I’ve mostly lived up to my resolutions, although I think I only got started on the one about spending less maybe a couple of months ago. Well, at least I got started.

This year I’m a lot less emo-nemo about NYE. Maybe because I’ve desensitised myself to the point of detachment. Or, maybe, now that I’m a working kidult, I no longer find myself capable of thinking in terms of years. Chloe and I were talking about how we tend to associate years with school years, uni years. But I don’t have that luxury anymore – there’s no first, second, third year to employment, there’s only ROYL (rest of your life, new acronym I made up one second ago).

What does Happy 2012 mean anymore, really? It’s just another date. It’s not a new term, or a new school year, or my birthday, or anything.

Time to find new short-term goals, I guess. That might make time plod a bit less slowly – little things to look forward to between little windows of time. Like, read Annie Proulx’s Postcards by February.

Hmm. That doesn’t make me feel any better.