New Year’s Day in America, and already I’ve been wished “Happy New Year” by a dozen strangers who don’t mean it. At least in Europe you had the decency to raise a glass before muttering pleasantries. Here it comes in the checkout line, lobbed by a cashier who looks like she’d rather put her head in the oven.
The air smells of disinfectant and fireworks — the twin perfumes of pandemic America. One bangs in the night sky, the other lingers in every public space. I half expect my groceries to come out Lysol-flavored.
People here are clinging to “fresh starts” as if they haven’t lived through the same long year of denial, division, and DIY haircuts. You slap a “2021” calendar on the wall and think the clock forgives you. It doesn’t. Time has no mercy, Sweethearts.
And then there’s politics. Half the country is popping champagne as if we’re back to normal because Joe Biden is set to take office in three weeks. The other half is still hoarding flags and conspiracy theories like they’re family heirlooms. Trump is stamping his feet, insisting the chair is still his. America has turned into a badly behaved toddler, and the rest of us are meant to applaud the tantrum.
If you want optimism, you’ve come to the wrong writer. The only resolutions I’ve heard worth keeping are practical: wear a mask, don’t lick the doorknobs, and for the love of sanity, stop believing Facebook memes.
As for me? My resolution is to sharpen my pen. If this country insists on putting its absurdities on parade, the least I can do is take notes.
Happy New Year. Or at least, new.
— U