And though I recoiled in horror last week when I realized that my 29th birthday is coming up (on Monday), last night was a reminder that my horrid 20s are almost over.

My decade of loneliness, compromise, rethinking dreams, coming to terms with my roots, discovering my place in the world, learning to stay put and deal rather than running away all the time ... over.

The 30s will be good. I can just feel it.

Last night, J. and B. were the only ones who ended up coming over. We set out lots of snacks, drank four bottles of red wine, and played four or five smashing games of Cranium. I haven't laughed that hard in years. It felt so comfortable. We barely noticed that the new year came and went. We didn't want it to end. And then we were exhausted, and a little drunk, and it had to end.

But my God, what a fabulous way to start the new year. This year that (I say hopefully) I'm starting with a clear head and a vision of who I want to be at the end of next December.

Yesterday I replayed many of my past New Year's Eves. Mostly they were forgettable, but a few scenes come to mind.

Sitting on a barstool in a private Jersey club, watching the millennium ring in around the world on the little bar TV while my boyfriend warmed up with his band.

Sitting in a jazz club, next to the other big-haired Jersey band bitches, while aforementioned boyfriend warmed up with a different band.

Going out in a warehouse club with 15 people I didn't really consider to be friends; my shoes sticking to the floor; being picked up by the other loneliest person in the place.

God, my 20s were a drag.

We invited L. to join us last night, and she left a long, apologetic message explaining that she was going out with The Secret Lover and really just wanted to be out at the bars, around people, barhopping.

Every molecule in my body rebelled against that very scene. If staying home and playing board games on New Year's Eve means that I'm old and boring, then bring on the old and boring, baby.