New Years in Samoa... No resolutions for 2017—just real, significant life change

It’s New Years in Samoa and the first wave of celebration will soon reach our shores. Another year over and a new one just begun. Many will spend the first day scrying the contents of a porcelain bowl, but some will spend it with someone they love—lucky for them.

Do I sound bitter? I can’t help the feeling—Blair left me for somebody else.

“You must have seen it coming,” Lindsay says. As always, she has a penchant for stating the obvious.

“Of course I saw it coming—just not at Christmas, for God’s sake.”

“C’mon Craig—is there ever a good time?”

I know she’s right—I just want to pout. After five years, I’m bloody well entitled.

“What am I going to do with the house?”

Her gaze scans the immense foyer of the Victorian manse, allowing her eye to travel up the full twenty-foot height of the twinkling Yule tree.

“I like this place, and you do too. You didn’t buy the house for Blair—you love old things.”

I do and there’s no sense arguing the point. I love Sunnyside even more than I ever loved Blair. I feel choked up at the thought of parting with the house.

“You’re right,” I say hoarsely, “I couldn’t bear to give up this place.”

“There, you see?” She brightens perceptibly. “Come to New Years at the club tonight and don’t allow Blair to ruin the start of a new year.”

I feel a warm rush of emotion pass through me. I always had fond feelings for Lindsay—we were best buds all through college—the only problem was, I didn’t love her. And I don’t now.

“I’ll see how I feel later,” I tell her.

She grabs me by the shoulders and stares directly into my eyes. Her fierce gaze pins me like a butterfly to a mounting board. “If you say, you’ll try—you won’t be there. Make a commitment—say you’ll come.”

“I’ll come,” I lie.

She caresses my cheek softly, brushing a kiss against it. “I’ll save you a dance,” she smiles.

“I doubt there’ll be room on your dance card.”

“I’ll make room.”

It’s absurd—Lindsay is beautiful and intelligent—far more attractive than Blair and certainly, more personable. The only possible reason I can think of for not loving her is the fact she loved me first. Anyone who loves me, I despise.

I know what you’re thinking—I need help—and you’re right. I’ve been seeing an analyst for some time now and he says the same thing—I have rejection issues.

Rejecting those who love me is just another form of self-loathing—it’s a form of masochism. I need people to reject me and then I need to win their love. It’s sick, but it’s true and that’s the treadmill I’m on, that is, until I find some way to get off the merry-go-round.

But it’s not going to happen any time soon.

After Lindsay leaves, I amuse myself in the billiards room, killing time by attempting impossible shots. It reminds me of my life—setting myself up for failure and then bemoaning my fate when the house of cards comes tumbling down.

The grandfather clock in the foyer chimes four. I rack the balls and put away the cue and head upstairs to relax and self-soothe in a warm bath.

I take a step toward the foyer and feel myself falling face first on the Persian rug. Everything goes black.

When I come to, I’m staring at a fuzzy out of focus pattern on the carpet. I realize I must have been out for some time, because the clock has just finished chiming the hour and the windows are dark.

I raise myself up on my elbow and glance around. I can see where my foot caught a fold in the rug, causing me to fall. My head is pounding. Damn! I hope I didn’t concuss.

I’m aware of harsh voices coming from just outside the door, in the foyer—women’s voices whispered, but angry. I push myself up to my knees and use the edge of the billiard table to help me stand up.

The voices are subdued, but seething with rage. I stand by the door and listen.

“Don’t do this Blair—not at Christmas—and certainly not just before New Years.”

“Who are you to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do?”

“You’ll hurt, Craig. It’s not a good time.”

“Oh, really—is it ever a good time to tell someone you loathe them—that you’re tired of their sycophantic fawning? I despise Craig—I’ve told you that. I don’t know why this should come as such a surprise.”

“It doesn’t—not really. I know you’ve felt this way a long time—but Blair, what would it matter if you waited a week? You could let him down easy.”

“Why should I? Harry asked me to jet with him to the Alps—I owe Craig nothing.”

“You’ve been with him for five years.”

I could hear anger flash through Blair’s words. “Yes, it’s been five years. Five years of watching you run interference—shielding him from the truth.”

“Then, tell him the truth—just not now. Wait a bit—don’t deliberately hurt him for God’s sake!”

“Oh, Saint Lindsay!—laying down your life and being walked over by a man who doesn’t give a damn about you and never will. Sweet, sweet, Saint Lindsay, the martyr—you make me sick.”

“Why do you hate Craig so much?”

There was a long pause, followed by a soft whisper. “Maybe it’s because I don’t measure up.”

“Measure up to who?”

“Measure up to you. You know Craig is needy—he’s high maintenance, and drives me crazy—but you? —you adore him. Don’t deny it—it’s written plainly on your face.”

“We’ve been friends a long time—of course, I care about him.”

“Care? Face it, Lindsay—it’s gone way past that. You love him and he doesn’t deserve you.”

I could hear Lindsay sob and Blair sigh. “Look, Hon—I know you mean well—but I don’t love him and I’m going to spend New Years with Harry. Why not ask Craig to go with you to the club? —He won’t have anything else lined up on short notice.”

“Is that what you think I am— a doormat? Do you think I’d take his pity invite?”

“Not only take it, but do the inviting yourself. You see—you can’t help it—you love him …and I don’t.”

“Please don’t do this, Blair.”

I could stand no more. I was trembling with fury. I threw open the door and stood mouth agape, staring at an empty foyer. The shock of seeing no one there, overwhelmed me.

I felt faint and barely managed to sit down on the stairs. My head was spinning.

I sat for what seemed an hour, reviewing in my head the course of my relationship with Blair. Every time there was a crisis, Lindsay was there. Not once did she ever complain when I’d phone and ask advice—not once did she ever refuse to sit patiently with me while I tried to talk things through.

I hadn’t seen Lindsay’s face while she argued with Blair, but I felt her soul—I felt her love and compassion and it stirred something similar in me.

I felt scales fall from my eyes—I saw myself and my petulance and then, I saw Lindsay in a new light.

I went to the club that night and predictably, Lindsay’s dance card was filled—but this time, by me. And I didn’t let her out of my sight.

People have to change sometime—I don’t know exactly how my own transformation came about. Was it a conversation that never happened, or a cosmic two-by-four to the side of my head that knocked some sense into me? I’ll never know.

New Years serves to remind me that people are always waiting–expecting the advent of some glorious event to alter their lives–some miraculous epiphany to change their ways, but that’s not what’s needed at all.

The only change required, is a change of heart.

A loving heart is the truest wisdom—Charles Dickens