Traverse City Record-Eagle

Betty Werth

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January 3, 2008

Betty Werth: The 'perfect' New Year's Eve

BY BETTY WERTH

Have you ever had a "perfect" New Year's Eve? The kind that was so much fun you want to do it again the exact same way? And no matter how hard you try, you can't repeat those same exact steps, regenerate that same euphoria, re-align those same stars?

Or, for that matter, remember the guy's last name?

Well, my New Year's Eve wasn't like that. I had the same New Year's Eve date I've had for the last 30 years -- not that I mind that -- but he was so sick he didn't even fire up the brush pile.

Those of you who have been reading me for years know that my husband's idea of a New Year's Eve "blast" is to set fire to a big stack of firewood he painstakingly piles on the beach all year long.

While others are dining out, or partying at a friend's, or tripping the light fantastic in their dancing shoes, he would have liked to have been putting on his heavy boots to tromp out to the lakeshore and torch a pile of brush and dead leaves he's been gathering and looking forward to burning since last Dec. 31. If that sounds exciting to you, I'm not explaining it right.

This year, though, a cold kept him inside, where he lounged around all evening in his pajama pants. The only excitement we had was a coughing spasm from 8:31-8:34. After that, and a glass of water, things were quiet.

I know that in a parallel universe some Betty somewhere is having a wonderful time on New Year's Eve, with a big crowd of friends, dancing the tango in the arms of some handsome man with fresh breath and a quick wit (is that Steve?) who is dazzled by the sight of me in my elegant gown.

In another parallel universe another Betty is flying off to Paris for a holiday, her husband continuing his tradition of surprising her every New Year's with a trip to some exotic locale that has great shopping.

And in yet another galaxy Steve and I are alone in the dark on the moors of Ireland, holding hands, lying on our backs looking up at the magnificent panoply of stars, talking softly and brilliantly and coming pretty darn close to understanding the meaning of the universe.

In this universe, the one where Steve has a cold and I'm getting wrinkled, we held hands and lay on our backs looking at the TV, watching the 10-second ball drop in Times Square. He was proud of being awake and I was relieved I didn't have to stand around that stupid brush pile.

For us the meaning of the universe remains a mystery, as does how two people with such different fantasies could live and love so long.

Next year, though, I'm doing something fun.

Reach Betty Werth at bwestrope@hotmail.com

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