How many times have I said that in the last 365 days?
Tonight, New Year’s Eve 2017, I’m in Tempe, Arizona. It’s a warm night and I’ve just come in from an evening out.
I’m at my brother’s condo; my niece and her boyfriend are off in Flagstaff snowboarding. They took their pooch, Bella, so it’s just me in the empty space, which is nice.
It’s just after midnight in the Mountain Time Zone, and fireworks are exploding all around; in fact, it sounds as though there is a big show somewhere nearby (I can hear the geese in the nearby lake freaking out). I’ve cracked the mini bottle of Moet to which I treated myself (I only had a couple of sips of warm champagne at the symphony, so I’m ready to toast 2018). But I really need to finish writing before I polish off the bottle, for sure.
Drinking and driving laws are pretty strict here in Arizona—as they should be, so I’ve had a dry New Year’s Eve day and night up till now, save for the one small sip hours ago.
And while it’s been dry, it’s been anything but dull.