I don’t do the whole New Year’s resolutions thing. And I never
really have. In the past, they were more like gentle one-word reminders
that I’d then type into my cell phone display so that every time I made
a call, I’d be compelled to “smile” or “breathe” or
But if I were going to make one—a resolution—this would be the year
to do it because last year sucked balls. Big, hairy,
rotten-pineapple-and-refining-bagasse smelling balls. The kind that
made me want to bite cars and body-slam windmills.
Not that there weren’t good things that happened last year as well.
Of course it can always be worse. And I am still alive and healthy,
after all. But hear me out.
I guess 2006 was difficult because it was a year of endless endings,
without the transformative sun-breaking-through-the-clouds bit that’s
supposed to follow. Yes, my grandmother passed away, three of my
closest friends moved to the mainland, my Jeep blew up, and the family
dog had to be put down.
But that’s not all. It wasn’t just the bad stuff that made this past
year so challenging. There were closures, too—of past relationships and
the apparent end of my free-wheelin’ singledom. And I hate to say it
but you know it’s true: when all your friends are getting married,
buying houses and birthing babies while you’re still trying to figure
out how you’re gonna pay rent and save money for the future—a future
seemingly filled with cats and a leaky tin roof—it can be a little
You might be thinking, “Get over it, Holoholo Girl! This is life!
Stop feeling sorry for yourself!” And well, you might be absolutely
right. And for that, you suck.
But you’d be missing the point. If those things that happened were
just events that required no contemplation, no self-analytical
checkpoints to gauge my spiritual, emotional and intellectual
evolution—if they were arbitrary events occurring over a reasonable
period of time, I feel as though I would grieve appropriately and move
You remember Sex and the City?
I don’t have to tell you how much I loved the show, or that the Sugar
Shack girls and I would plan our weekends around marathons of it or
that I still watch old episodes occasionally. But there was one thing
that really irked me about its demise, or rather, how it ended.
The series finale featured Carrie, the main character, leaving
uncertainty and an unstable artist in Paris for her “one true love,”
Mr. Big in New York. Although it’s implied that New York City is what
actually completes her, it’s more obvious to the viewer that by finally
uniting Carrie with Mr. Big, the chapter closes. Nothing more needs to
What bothered me about the show’s ending is that it inferred
Carrie’s journey stopped—her endless quest for truth was over and her
quixotic life neatly wrapped up in a Prada package with matching Chanel
ribbon—as soon as she found love. She got her man and that’s what any
single, successful, smart woman wants in the end. Isn’t it?
I couldn’t disagree more. And maybe this is part of my problem.
My fear last year when I was single was that if I continued to run
around like a crazy drunken harlot in a bustier, sure I’d have adequate
material to write about but I wouldn’t be present enough to know how to
take it—writing this column, mainly—to the next level. When I became
enveloped in a bubble of love that stopped time for a moment, I was
present but missing out on the process of discovery so crucial for
entertaining column fodder.
And so it seems my struggle right now is to somehow find a happy
medium in which I can appreciate a mature relationship while branching
out independently and enriching my personal and professional growth. To
be in love and yet, still searching and reaching and writing about the
sociological significance of drunks in bars. And to stop watching so
much goddamned TV.
I’ll figure it out. Have faith. And keep those drinks coming.
Oh, so what is the resolution I would make this year? Hmm… I’m
guessing it would be smile, breathe and don’t kill anyone today who
might be missed.
Samantha Campos would like to have her cake and eat it too although she has no idea what that means exactly. MTW