I have this really great story about New Year's Day but you'll have to wait a day for that as I haven't yet downloaded the pictures from the evening to spice up that entry.
What I do have to write about is something that came up on New Year's Eve. Meggie and I were standing at the bar, just talking. Talking the way people do. It's New Year's Eve, it's starting out slowly, but I'm with Meggie and we always have fun. So we're chatting when I completely interrupt her to comment on the fact that a driver's license with a red stripe lands on the bar. A red stripe. A red stripe means that the person who tossed that license onto the bar is a recent 21-year-old. RECENT. As in not 8.5 years ago like me. My license with the red stripe is hanging out somewhere in San Francisco without me, probably having the time of its life at whatever bar I dropped it at. I loved that license. The photo of me as a 16 year-old, beaming with my newfound legal driving capabilities, was lost forever. When I finally got my new license, I had taken a bad bad photo and the red stripe was gone. They also upped my weight when I didn't ask them to but that's a story for another time. Right now, I'm lamenting my Red Stripe License.
Cheers to Red Stripe Licenses. This one gets no exclamation point because I'm going to be 30 this year, and the next time I'll see a Red Stripe License my kid will have one. Ouchie.