Almost exactly two years ago, Match.com ran a darkly hilarious ad in which Satan, played by Ryan Reynolds, introduces himself to a comely lass he’s met online.
“Please,” she says. “Call me 2020.” So maybe that explains it!
Instantly smitten, the two spend the next 11 months canoodling in empty theaters and stadiums, because everyone else is in quarantine, and taking selfies in front of an actual dumpster fire. Toward the end of the spot, the sinister sweethearts sit on a bench watching the world burn, lamenting that they don’t want the year to end.
Even in its glibness, and the gleefully arch use of Taylor Swift’s wistful “Love Story,” the spot was actually hopeful because it seemed optimistic — or at least wanted to be — that 2020 was a particularly awful anomaly. The ad was, to quote the great English 1990s band The Sundays, “a little souvenir of a terrible year,” one that that would never be repeated. 2021 couldn’t possibly be worse, right?
Right?
We all know how that played out. Just six days into 2021, gallows were erected outside the U.S. Capitol, and things stayed scary and bumpy from there. For me, that extinguished any hope that we could just automatically assume that this or any new year was a clean slate. We can drink all the champagne and blow all the noisemakers we want, but there are no guarantees that 2023 is going to suck less. But it’s OK to hope that it does.
I am not here to tell you to just grin and bear it, or to pretend that the world isn’t in deep, divisive, climate-disaster despair. I’m just saying that we have to accept that and then keep pushing forward. Yes, that’s easier said that done. But I have some thoughts:
- Be honest about where we are, and if there’s anything we can do about it: There are a lot of things happening that we can’t do anything about from here, like the war in Ukraine. But that’s not the case with all the things that are depressing us. Consider the so-called tripledemic, the unholy trinity of COVID-19, the flu and RSV that’s felling a lot of people and keeping ERs busy. It seems insurmountable and like we should all just stay home for, like, ever. But maybe it’s better to think about how we can minimize our risks, like masking, vaccines, hand-washing, or avoiding large crowds. It doesn’t make the prospect of getting sick any less scary. But it does make us feel we have some control.
- Stop doomscrolling: I’m a journalist, so I’m never going to tell anyone not to be informed. But there’s a difference between sticking your head in the sand and pointing out that it’s not healthy to be sitting up in bed at 3 a.m. refreshing your Twitter search for “nuclear attack,” “global warming” and “mean things said about Meghan Markle.” I know. I’ve done this. It’s all still terrible. It’s still going to be terrible when I wake up. So I might as well get some sleep.
- Think about the things you have to look forward to this year: I’ve found that making plans, particularly tangible ones, is a good way to stay positive because we’ve got something we’re working toward. For instance, in 2023 I’m looking forward to painting all the rattan furniture in my living room purple, to taking at least one big trip with my son — maybe Paris! — and to seeing “Creed 3″ because cheering for cute movie guys is my jam. Maybe all my plans won’t happen, but goals can keep you too busy to worry so much.
- Give yourself a break: I remember brushing off my therapist when she told me that I was doing a good job moving forward after my husband died, raising my son and getting back to work. “What choice did I have?” I asked her. “We always have a choice,” she answered. And she’s right. We’re all in different places in our lives, and our situations vary. But it’s OK to stop a minute and give ourselves some credit for having survived a truly terrible time. And for continuing to do so.
- Look out into the darkness and choose to be annoyingly upbeat against all logic: I admit to being an irritatingly optimistic person. I like seeing the bright side. I’m not in denial — I’m a widow, living in a city with a high crime rate in what some consider a dying profession. But I still choose to channel my inner Broadway orphan and declare, even amid the mess, that a better tomorrow is just a day away. Sometimes out loud and in public. This embarrasses my child. I don’t care. Think about it — Annie was literally an emotionally abused orphan during the Depression saving street dogs and trying to not to get kidnapped. And still she kept singing. This annoyed the other orphans. But it worked. Keep singing.
This year is not going to be perfect. Some of it is going to suck. But I still think, as Counting Crows once sang, that there’s reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last. (Yes, this is another moody ’90s song reference.) Because we don’t know that it won’t. So we might as well assume it might.
