Recollections of a perfectly good failure

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?

Maybe. 

But really, it's the type of failure I really don't mind.