Wrap It Up and Send it Off

So, here's to kicking 2005 out the door and ushering in a beautifully hearty new blond likely to be more fun (to quote an old e-mail) than "a fannypack full of ferrets." The passing of a dead year is a ready-made time of reflection, and I can't help but grin, cringe, and shake my fist as I think of everything I'll recall when I think of 2005 as an oldie in a rocker.

This time last year I lived with three different roommates, owned no Columbo, wasn't yet in the Creative Writing subcon, didn't know Edgar, had my natural haircolor, spoke of New Orleans, Jerry Orbach, John Spencer, and Molly in the present tense, had never experienced a housefire first-hand, had only one hole in my right ear's cartilage, was fifteen pounds lighter, hadn't yet begun my project with Clifford (who did not yet have grandchildren), had never been to Vegas, had never seen Joe Ely or Guy Clark in concert, wasn't yet GEP co-project manager, was still working at University Catering, didn't give a flying fuck about grad school, and was wondering just how the last semester of my junior year would turn out.

I was me then, and also not me. I was a familiar but different person. Some years we grow (or, I suppose, go slip-sliding away) so much more than in others; as far as personal development goes, on a scale of 1 to 10 I suppose 2005 was about a 6.5 for me. 2002, with all the highschool to college transitioning, was an 8.o. What about other folks?