Last night was New Year’s Eve. Over the past twenty years or so, I have spent either New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day, or both, with my friends Katherine and Marty. When I was young and single, New Year’s Eve meant going to a club for dinner and dancing, or a house-party where inevitably someone ended up naked in the hot tub. New Year’s Day was for nursing a hangover and cleaning up the mess from the night before.

As we got older, it meant a special dinner made by Katherine, a gourmet cook and hostess who out-Marthas Martha Stewart, or after I got married, a special New Year’s Day brunch al fresco with the husbands and the kids and the dogs, followed by a walk on the beach.

This year, a trip down to So Cal where my friends live just wasn’t in the cards, Being that my husband and I work hard all year long, are seriously in need of some R&R, and are, well, not as young as we used to be, we weren’t particularly excited about the idea of driving into the city in traffic, getting squished by crowds of people, listening to loud music we can’t relate to, or walking for miles trying to find a cab, so we decided to stay home.

I thought I’d make a nice meal, and then we’d watch the ball drop over Times Square in our jammies from the comfort of our living room, share a bottle of champagne, some coffee ice cream, and a kiss at midnight, and then go upstairs to bed to ring in the new year.

By now I should learn that life never quite works out the way you anticipate it will, and (Wo)man  plans, and God laughs, as the old Yiddish saying goes.

Half an hour after we finished dinner, I started to get pains in my chest. I took my underwire bra off a la Jennifer Beals in Flashdance (without taking off my top) looking for some relief. Of course, a small part of me hoped it might interest my husband, who didn’t even look up from his iPad. Ten minutes later Jennifer was completely forgotten and the pain was pinning me to the sofa. I had to ask my husband to walk the twenty steps into the kitchen to get me some Tums, because I wasn’t up to getting them for myself. Romantic, non?!

I’ll spare you the gory details, but needless to say, I was in bed before midnight, and the champagne is still in the fridge. My husband got hit with it in the middle of the night, and only the dog seemed to escape unscathed, but of course, she’s not talking, who knows?

Along the way I had a chance to reflect on the fact that (a) maybe putting all those red pepper flakes in the Swiss chard was not the best idea I ever had (b) expectations can lead to disappointments, which is something I need keep working on, and (c) although married life may not be as sexy as I thought it would be when I was still in full possession of my hormones, it sure is nice to have someone who will walk the twenty steps to the kitchen for you when you really, really need an antacid and don’t feel up to getting it for yourself.