What a year you've been, 2008, my first year without cigarettes since 1994. I certainly wasn't expecting you to come along when my coping skills were so scratched and raw. Under your watch, I've lost my charming granddad, lost a child I'll never meet, lost a powerfully loving mamaw, lost a dusty old cat. My dad fought cancer and my dog had surgery. You obviously had something to teach me-- that is to say that I prefer to think you weren't just fucking with me.
But I have learned, have let go, have wrinkled, have fattened, have picked myself up (and let myself be picked up) over and over. Sometimes I felt like I was just weathering the crashing waves of you, 2008. And I'd like to think I gave you a run for your money. Finally, the days are getting brighter and longer, and you're on your way out.
But listing it out like that isn't really fair. I don't want us to part this way, me having dragged out the facts to build the case for your good riddance. Let's not have an airing of grievances.
2008, you weren't so unbearable. The guy I voted for won-- about damn time-- and I'm still adjusting to my own optimism. You brought me a career change and a kick in the ass. You gave me time to shake my own expectations about balancing work and life. You gave me another year with my perfect match of a husband and a priceless stretch of time to watch Birdy work on becoming herself. You were my eighth year in this city, knitting me closer into my precious little circle. Indiana seems more like a pleasant place I've been, and this feels more and more like home.
So goodbye, 2008. At the stroke of midnight, I'll you a hug-- and mean it-- and then flip you the bird as you walk out the door.