Before I even recovered from the side effects of my flu vaccine, I packed up my Sudafed and cough medicine into my bag with ski-boots and snow-pants, and headed off to New York with a group of friends.
The slopes were far from ideal, but we glided, sun- and sweat-soaked in the 45-degree weather, through slush and over ice, avoiding patches of dirt and kids on leashes and fallen members of our own group. Shedding sweaters, unlocking the shackles of ski-boots, massaging bruised ankles and cramped feet and clenched palms. Pretending the cafeteria really was a restaurant–wolfing down granola bars and passed drinks, my back to the football game on TV.
Huddling into cars on our way to eat to sleep to eat to eat to ski (come on, guys, how can you be hungry all the time), car speakers providing a constant beat, life rushing to a soundtrack.
The beat slowed and the volume hushed and we were heading home through dark highways, ghostly headlights, streetlights flitting past.
Home. The car disappeared down the road, and the ski-trip was swept away with the year, replaced momentarily by half-hearted smiles and champagne, and then gone, as the world arbitrarily began to look forward to a new year, some wishing for a better life, some predicting death.
Either way, it’s not a “new start”– but merely a continuation.