Ho Hum New Year

It’s Friday—New Year’s Eve. I’ve been at my desk since eight o’clock this morning, trying to finish up a PowerPoint presentation for a sales meeting at two in the afternoon. Half an hour to go. “Sally, can you send me those graphics, please? The product comparison data.” Sally works in the cubicle next to mine and is very reliable, usually. Unfortunately, it being New Year’s Eve, everyone is busy talking about the upcoming office party and what to wear—not really focused on work. “Sally!” I call out, louder this time. “Okay, okay. I’m right here. Keep your shirt on,” she answers. “I’ve saved them on the server in the Graphics folder. All yours.” “Thanks, hon. Sorry I’m so grouchy, but the boss is really anxious about this meeting.” “It’s all right, John. I understand. And it doesn’t help, I suppose, that this is last minute and on the last day of the frickin’ year,” she says, sympathetically. “No, it really doesn’t,” I grouse. Finding the files I need, I insert the data, do a final run through, and save the presentation. I call my boss, Mr. Stevens, and tell him, “It’s a go.” Then I hang up the phone. I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “John, are you okay?” Sally asks, concerned at my seeming lack of composure. “I’m fine, really. Just stressed, I guess. I’ll be okay in a minute.” “Are you sure there isn’t anything else going on? New man, maybe? Playing hard to get?” Sally is ever hopeful. “No, thanks,” I grumble. “I’ve told you before—I’m through with men and their antics. Can’t trust any of them, don’t see why I should.” With a sad sigh, Sally tries again. “John, there are good men out there. You just need to open your heart to the possibility. They’re not all bastards like Nigel.” Whenever she says his name, the corners of her mouth turn down and her expression becomes disgusted. It warms my heart, actually, to know she cares enough to be angry at my ex, even after he’s been gone for two years. “Don’t let him win. A new year starts tomorrow. Take a chance on something or someone for a change. It can only get better from here.” “Sorry, love. I don’t believe it, and I’m not interested,” I reply in a tone meant to end the discussion. “Well, are you at least coming to the office party tonight?” she cajoles. “Free booze, loose morals, business clients looking for a quick f**k? You haven’t given up on s*x, have you?” She wiggles her eyebrows at me. “No, I haven’t, but I only scratch that itch once in a while. Why pay ten dollars to get off with a guy I can’t see in a dark, smelly bar I won’t remember when I can watch porn at home and do it with my own hand? It’s cheaper and health-hazard free.” I don’t really watch porn, but she doesn’t need to know that. Rolling her eyes, Sally says, “You know, I don’t think you’re as bitter and indifferent as you claim to be. There’s a real human being in there, someone who needs to be loved and to give love. You need to let him out. Tonight, maybe?” Her innocent look isn’t working. Feeling put upon, I respond, “Whatever. Look, I’ll be there, but I’m not making any promises, okay?” Turning back to my computer, I bring up my email and check for any more last minute fires to put out. There’s no one out there for me, and that’s the end of it. * * * * Riding home on my bicycle, Sally’s words come back to me. I don’t think you’re as bitter and indifferent as you claim to be. There’s a real human being in there, someone who needs to be loved… Am I really that much of a curmudgeon? Granted, I don’t talk to other tenants unless I have to, like when they make too much noise as I try to sleep at night. I live in a building with young twenty-somethings, so you get my drift. Or their dogs bark incessantly, breaking my concentration while I try to read. Am I being unreasonable when I ask that Hannibal, the Chihuahua down the hall, be given sleeping pills in his food so I can sleep? Or, my personal favorite—knocking on my door to borrow a hammer or cell phone charger, of all things, as if I’m some sort of supply store. My typical response—a slammed door to the face. Only the new tenants try that. The long-term residents know better. Hmmm. She may have a point. Perhaps I could be a little bit friendlier by actually saying good morning instead of grunting and frowning in an off-putting manner. And do I really need to be that much of a stickler about everything? Does it really matter if Julius Caesar, the poodle (yes, a poodle—someone had delusions of grandeur) from the loft next door, likes to jump on me every time he sees me? I mean, it does matter, but it’s not so important that I have to yell at the poor thing, is it? Maybe if I just pat him on the head, he’ll stop. Right. Fat chance, that. I suppose my New Year’s resolution should be: John Parnassus will endeavor to be less cranky. Well, don’t hold your breath, but I’ll give it a go.