Near the end of April, I realized none too soon that 1) I was single and thus 2) no one besides my mother could be expected to do much of anything festive for my birthday.

To be fair, Jeff did get me a nice divorce-themed present: a Blackberry, a separate phone plan, and the first month of service, as a sort of celebration of my singletude. The process of splitting up with someone you still care about comes with its own odd brand of romance, I guess, though the girl at the Verizon counter seemed a little confused by the fact that Jeff was simultaneously kicking me off his phone plan and buying me a smartphone to squee over. (She was barely old enough to drink, newly engaged, and starry-eyed as all hell about it; my marriage was quite obviously in its final death-twitches. I’m not sure which one of us felt more unsettled by the other, so we will just call it a draw.)

But I didn’t intend to spend my birthday with Jeff. In the spirit of new beginnings, it seemed more appropriate to do something different, and by “more appropriate” I actually mean “less pathetic.” How depressing would it be to start my 29th year by going on the dating equivalent of a funeral? Happy birthday to me! May we rest in peace.

The lack of general fanfare regarding my birthday was my fault, as Facebook is now the nation’s trusted authority for birthdays, and I had failed to list mine for anyone’s reference. I hold no one responsible for failing to remember my birthday on their own. That’s like remembering someone’s phone number these days. Honestly, who does that? I’m lucky if I know my OWN birthday and phone number half the time.

At any rate, deeply depressed at the notion of sitting home alone on my birthday, I decided to take matters into my own hands and throw myself a party. The great thing about belonging to a derby league is that throwing oneself a party essentially just amounts to e-mailing everyone and telling them to meet you at the bar, which is exactly what I did. I took a breath, swallowed my pride, ignored the imagined sounds of my well-mannered mother clucking her tongue at my tackiness, and wrote the following message:

—–

I will be turning 29 at midnight on Friday night and have no plans whatsoever. I don’t even have a husband. Or any non-derby friends. And none of my family will be in town. All I have is a cat who has no choice but to hang out with me. I’ll probably spend Friday night in my tiny, underfurnished apartment, staring into space and petting this poor captive animal as he attempts to squirm out of my grasp and longs for the days when he was safe behind bars at the Humane Society.

But … you know … some of you could step up and offer to get drunk with me. That would be one way to avert such a pitiful scene … hypothetically speaking, of course.

—–

Yes, I have the decency to be ashamed that I appealed to everyone’s sympathies. But I was going through A Difficult Time, and if you can’t play the pity card then, when can you?

Even with Official Hard Times on my side, I expected maybe ten people to show up; I’m not particularly socially assertive, being the sort of person who prefers to make three or four good friends in any given large group and then call it a day. You can imagine my surprise when ten o’ clock rolled around and I found myself in bar that was packed with familiar faces. Everyone bought me drinks, clapped me on the back, and indulged my famous love for Bon Jovi on the jukebox. I had a truly marvelous time getting completely hammered, opening sexually suggestive presents (giant phallic bubble wand, anyone?), and basking more or less unapologetically in all of the attention, something I have not been able to do sober since I was about six years old. (Even drunk, I believe I still turned beet-red and put both hands over my face when everyone sang “Happy Birthday” to me. Once an introvert, always an introvert.) Then my friends drove my inebriated self to a diner, put some food in my face, and put me to bed. (On the way home, I got the hiccups, and mournfully told my patient driver that I was a hobo. “Listen to that,” I kept saying plaintively, every time I hiccuped. “JUST LIKE A HOBO.” Not only did she not dump me out of the car in annoyance and leave me for dead, but she also politely ignored any misinformed hobo stereotypes I seemed hellbent on perpetuating.)

The next day, I woke up grinning, which sounds precious but was frankly kind of weird. Despite returning to consciousness as the proud owner of both a hangover and a decidedly loony expression, I felt energized and excited. Despite the personal tragedy I still felt embroiled in, I had managed to kick-start the year in style, with a little (OK, a lot of) help from my friends, many of whom I hadn’t realized I had. All of my social failures and laziness had seemingly been forgotten, replaced with genuine kindness and enthusiasm from a group of people who were glad to help me back onto my feet (both figuratively and literally, seeing as there was rum involved). We should all be so lucky, to find ourselves surrounded by people who so sincerely wish us well, despite our failings, whether we deserve it or not.

I have not forgotten that gift, and only partly because I had nearly illegal amounts of fun singing to “Living on a Prayer.” Mostly, I have not forgotten it because May 1 marked the first really good day of 2009, the sort of day that makes you feel not just lucky to be alive, but lucky to be this particular person inhabiting this particular body at this particular time, free of jealousy or despondence or desire or regret. That party was a revelation, and it wouldn’t be my last.

I am telling you about that day now because it marked a shift in this year’s trajectory. Looking back, I can plainly see 2009 changing its course, the way you can feel a plane adjust its angle once takeoff is completed. Before then, I had feared that this year might be the first year of my life that I quite honestly could have done without. You see people say that all the time: “2009 can suck it,” or “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, 2009.” Previous to 2009, I had been lucky enough to have never felt that particular sentiment, but when everything fell apart at the beginning of this year, I remember being flooded with fear at the certainty that this, this would be my throwaway year, one big twelve-month-long black mark that would stand out among my collection of happy annos. It would be my throwaway year, and I would have to live it anyway, and that arrangement seemed a bit harsh on the universe’s part, as far as I was concerned.

It’s not that I felt entitled to a string of shiny, untarnished years, an unbroken and gracious lifetime of pearls. It’s just that I secretly hoped to save my unfortunate year(s) until right at the end—perhaps as I languished in my mansion, bedridden, ailing from some kind of terminal and debilitating but mostly painless disease, at the approximate age of 138.

I hadn’t been intentionally UNREASONABLE, is what I’m saying, just rather optimistic, and when it appeared that my perfect record of good years was in danger, that possibility scared me.

It is a profound understatement to say that I needn’t have worried. 2009, it turned out, would be one of the best years of my life, full of discovery and adventure and even love, in all of its overlooked and unexpected forms. I admit that I might even be a little sad to leave 2009, despite my redoubled efforts to face the challenges of the future with an enthusiastic sort of dignity. Despite all its trials (or more than likely because of them, though admitting that causes me to make a face akin to that of a toddler who just bit experimentally into a lemon wedge), this year is touching down on the runway to deliver a more empathetic, powerful, confident, passionate, and independent me to a decidedly surprising destination.

2010 promises to bring its own set of challenges—some of which I can already identify, and some of which, I am sorry to say, I will have never seen coming—and something tells me that this is going to be a very, very complicated year in a lot of ways. I have a lot of decisions to make and a lot of conflicts to tackle, both external and internal. But if I can clamber off a year like 2009 waxing eloquent (or perhaps just magniloquent? shh) about my trip, I figure there’s hope for every year, and 2010 finds me a little more willing to enjoy the ride.

Dear 2009: Holy crap, you kicked my ass. But I like to think that I kicked yours, too. Because you offered so many great memories, I have decided that I am willing to overlook That Other Thing. (Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.) All of our troubles aside, I’m glad that I am disembarking as a friend.

Dear 2010: Is this seat taken?

Dear 2118: MOSTLY PAINLESS DISEASE, I said. IN A MANSION. Thank you in advance.

Dear Everybody: Happy new year, and I hope 2009 gave you something good to remember it by. If it did, I’d love to hear about it.