On the last night of the year, I usually wear a thin sequin dress with a spritz of Chanel Eau Tendre, and heel it to a boujie blowout at a ritzy hotel in Soho. Of course, I always stay out way too late and somehow before dawn, find myself cocooned in my down comforter. This year, I was abruptly awoken by my super drilling away at our broken buzzer. I opened the window. “Good morning, darling,” He said.“Welcome to 2018.”
How appropriate: even in this should-be-sleeping hour, there remains all the potential to not be missed. And yes, such a moment will always come at a cost that I’m willing to pay.
Recurring milestones have a way of gauging how far you’ve come. Every year when the countdown begins, so comes a recollection of the years before. Each is a frozen encapsulation of a time, a place, a moment signifying progression. New Years’ Eve is especially special to me because I was born that night, just a few hours after the ball drop. As a young girl, I believed that on New Years’ Eve, the whole world celebrated my birthday. Something my mother whispered to me one new year’s – while I was still in oversized t-shirts, drawing with sparklers in the sky. One of many beautiful little lies my mother told me. And sometimes even now as I reach the big three zero, I pretend it’s true.
This year has been magical. It’s been the year of letting go, and trusting that this is how change happens – one gesture, one person, one moment at a time. I’ve rebuilt, making a new life in an apartment with six beautiful girls on a busy street in the West side of Harlem. In 2017, I went blonde, I put more energy into friendships, and I began dancing again. I learned to let go of things that didn’t make me happy. I bought more plants, took more risks, and allowed myself to be moved by small gestures of people I barely knew. I threw more house parties, fell in love with a Brazilian man, and learned how to show up again and trust that people will meet me there.
So this is where it begins, after a night of cheap shots of virgin toddy on one glittering night out, I place my bare feet on the hardwood floor of my upper west side apartment, pull a streamer out of my hair, and smile into the mirror because I have a feeling that 2018 is going to be an amazing year, and 30 looks damn good on me. So cheers to you, my readers. I hope you join me in what I am confident will be the best year yet.
What I’m wearing: similar Adrianna Papell Dress, Mac Ruby Woo Lipstick &