Picture this: it’s New Year’s Eve in Toronto. Lineups at the LCBO are long and patrolled by security guards and the Royal York Hotel lobby is filled with revellers checking in to the hotel, their hair done, their suits and dresses hanging in their arms, all ready for a booze filled night of dancing waiting up ahead.
And then there’s me. Sprawled across a plush mattress on the 17th floor of the hotel with a cool, damp cloth compressed over my forehead. My nails are covered in glitter and my red lace dress waits for me in the walk in closet that is larger than my apartment. In one hand, I hold a ticket to the NYE gala starting in an hour downstairs. In my other hand is a note scribbled by a walk-in-clinic doctor just a few hours ago with instructions that I am to give over to a nurse in the emergency room.
I’ve hit plenty of lows in the past year, let alone my entire life, but this has got to be the lowiest-low of them all: being sent to the hospital on New Year’s Eve.
A lot of people I know hate New Year’s Eve. But it’s my second favourite night of the year, after Halloween and the Pirate Cruise night. 2015 was one of the worst years of my life, and while it would be fitting to spend it wasting away in a cramped waiting room, that’s not the chapter I wanted to end the year on.
Here I am stepping out from 2015’s shadow and into the blinding brightness of 2016. (Or wait, is that my migraine?)