Nine O'clock Narcolepsy

"And now, I'm just trying to change the world, one sequin at a time." Lady Gaga

Another year over and a new one just begun! In confession I usually miss the actual chimes of transition from one year to the next. For me its another 'New York' New Year's Eve (NYNYE) in the making. Its a west coast phenomenon that rebalances the three hour time lag we endure for the other 364 days.

It is super handy, that here in California, we can have a couple of glasses of champers, count the new year in, blow a few poppers and be home, tucked up in bed by 9.30pm. Its not that I can't stay up until midnight, its just when it goes dark my body clock starts winding down. I'm trapped in that mid generational nine o'clock narcolepsy. The grandparents are all going out to some prestigious, ticketed event, with the thought that they had better go big as they only have a finite number of NYE left. The kids are too young to have some teenage/mid twenties date at a binge drinking, french kissing festival. So that leaves me middle aged, mid winter nap, grumpily squinting one eye at the clock and rolling over at the sound of fireworks and revelry. But nine o'clock narcolepsy is not just applicable once a year, it seems to pervade every time I have a nocturnal outing.

Once again I am compelled to defend my pathetic position in the social rankings by blaming my exhaustion (and the need to hide under the bed covers) on the thought of what lies ahead - 9 months of travel, surf, adventure, homeschool and the inevitable weight of too much luggage. "Simplicity is making the journey of this life with just baggage enough." Charles Dudley Warner

If only I could pack up my emotional baggage and hand it over at the airport. Instead I am left to elucidate my vulnerabilities via electronic media, feeling more like a blagger than a blogger. Contemplating the swan dive from 2011 into 2012, I will be stripped naked of friends and familiar territory.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind ?" Robert Burns. As I sing a premature version of Auld Lang Syne this evening, my tears will acknowledge that my trepidation lies not in the act of leaving but in the fear of not coming back.