Truesday: Setting An Appropriate Precedent
*The views expressed in Truesday are those of the author and do not represent Austinist as a whole. Thank heavens.* -The Editors
Bottles popped, kisses were slapped all over the place, and I managed to barely remember another New Year’s Eve.
It all began when I decided that I was going to wear a robe out. I wish there was a solid bit of reason behind that rhyme, but really, it was only because they were on sale, and I’ve never owned a robe as an adult. When I was eyeing them at the store, I simply decided that I was not only going to buy one, but that I was going to go ahead and wear it out. I probably would have done that on ANY night. I liked the robes that much. It just so happened to be New Year’s Eve.
Seriously. I wish it was more dramatic than that, but just like every other bad idea, it started out pretty innocuous.
After I had already bought the thing, and brought it home, other ill-fated ideas began to come to mind. Go naked beneath. Maybe add a pipe and slippers to complete the ensemble. The main one: booze smuggling. Drinks at The Parish aren’t outrageously priced or anything, but I was a tad worried about whether or not champagne would be readily available for the toast. I intended to sew in a few interior pockets so I could bring a few mini-bottles of the bubbly. But, big surprise, that never panned-out.
I can’t sew. So, fuck that noise.
And as for going naked, or with other sleepwear items, well, it all got mysteriously waysided in favor of sweat pants and a homemade tuxedo t-shirt. I’m not sure that there’s a better wardrobe representation of the statement: “fuck it”, than that. But up to that point, it had all been subconscious.
Then it occurred to me exactly why I liked the idea of the robe so much: it’s relaxed, and it speaks volumes about how I prefer things to be. It embodies the whole reason I choose to live here in Austin. What other city could I enter a NYE party dressed like that? Maybe Brooklyn, but everyone there would be expecting some deep, philosophical or pretentious shit-bag concept behind it.
Why is that so necessary? Must everything have a point?
I dig irony, symbolism, and all the trappings that get dragged behind the clever bus, but sometimes a man just wants to chillax in his robe. He doesn’t need a reason beyond the root desire. And in a city like ours, I don’t fucking need a good reason. Beyond a handful of pseudo-posh-ish be-seen spots, no venue here cares what brand of shoe I’m sporting.
After the midnight toast tolled its way through, I slipped deep-deep-deep into blackout sweat-box mode. I zoned the fuck out, and apparently wouldn’t stop repeating myself. Anyone who talked to me got sick of answering the same goddamn question over and over and over and over. Like trying to have a conversation with a Speak & Spell. Well, what can I say? I was obscenely polluted, and even though I asked the same question four times, I STILL don’t remember the answer.
Whiskey is good that way.
And the sweat? MY WORD. By the time they hit the lights, that robe weighed a good seventy five pounds. Soaked and absolutely atrocious smelling. Like I was wearing a freshly cut yeti-pelt. Chum cologne. Swamp musk.
And I brought in the new year like that. A sweaty, boisterous, wandering-eyed drunk in a robe. It’s more appropriate a start than I could have ever hoped for.
So that’s my plan for 2007: to sweat like a motherfucker. Laughing, fist-pumping. In bedtime comfort. Dancing with you.
Merry New Year motherfuckers!
