I woke up yesterday morning, noting blearily that if I had woken up only five minutes later, it would officially no longer be morning. I was still wearing my jeans, but I had taken off my socks and shirt. The fact that I was wearing my jeans was a little alarming, and for a second I panicked.
What had I done last night? It was, after all, New Year's Eve, a night of craziness and drunken debauchery.
Then I remembered the night before. Having a few drinks with some friends, playing a friendly poker game and winning some money in between flaming shots of 151, counting down the last seconds of the year, and then contendedly walking home in a light rain, wondering what 2011 was going to bring me.
Remembering it all, I sighed in relief. I hadn't gone crazy last night.
And then I thought - I hadn't gone crazy last night. In fact, I woke up on January first with nothing even remotely resembling a hangover. There were no strange, random women in my bed. And there was still money in my pocket - in fact, there was more money in my pocket than there was when I left the house the night before.
Had I failed New Year's Eve?
But really, it's the type of failure I really don't mind.