1985 was a really difficult year for Karl and me. We’d only been married for two years, so we weren’t as solid in our relationship as we’ve grown to be now, and life bombarded us with all kinds of ugliness. By October of 1985, we’d had it, and we began to think we just weren’t going to survive until the year’s end. So, we threw a party. We hosted a New Year’s Eve celebration complete with hats and noisemakers and champagne. We stayed up, accompanied by our dearest friends who didn’t think we were nuts and who understood the sentiment, and we ushered in a “new year”. From that evening on, even on checks and important documents, I wrote the date as 1985.5. We jettisoned the bad and hard to willfully and intentionally began again.
Lately, I’ve had déjà vu. I’ve had about enough of the shenanigans that 2020 has been pulling, and I’m over it. I’m tired of the news, the drama, the threats of sickness, the riots and violence, and the abundance of hatred and the fear. I’m weary of feeling anxious, and I am at my maximum levels of tolerance due to our most recent plague: the smoke and the haze and the red sun caused by forest fires over a hundred miles away. Enough is enough!
Now the question becomes, what to do about it? Hey, want to come to my party?
