If you would have told me, even four years ago, that I would be spending New Year’s Eve in a new home in a new neighborhood in Boston, MA, with my new husband and his 13- and 16-year-olds playing video games on multiple devices just feet away from where I type now, I would have given you a bit of a raised eyebrow.

And by “bit”, I mean that I would have rolled my eyes and asked if you got a good deal on the crack you were smoking.

I mean, come on.

Some of it sounds like what I had in mind, sure.

Husband? Yep, I always intended to have one of those.

Kids? Yep, I always intended to have them.

A home? Sure, you need somewhere to put all those people, right?

But the way it all actually happened continues to be a surprise, even after weeks and months of life together. Really. It’s easy to get used to the new… until I open my eyes in the middle of the night and hear someone snoring just inches away (and a room or two away), and watch the shadows dancing across our bedroom wall, created by the moon shining through our backyard trees.

My backyard? My trees? My wall? My snoring mate (and guys)?

Wow.

I like that — I don’t want to get used to it quite yet.

I want to be surprised by joy and thankfulness every day for as long as I can sustain it.

Is it perfect? No. I’m not sure what perfect would look like, but it sounds awfully dull.

Is it trouble-free? No. And I never stood a chance of a life like that, flawed as I am.

Is it predictable? In some ways, yest, and in other ways, not a chance. You know… just like life.

Is it all ironed-out? Not a chance. We’ve still got more things to figure out in the months ahead.

But I am so thrilled it’s what I have.

As we celebrate the beginning of a new year, I find myself thinking what I always think on this occasion: New Year’s Eve is an over-hyped, faux-holiday that leads to anxiety about “doing something”, painfully high heels, horribly expensive dinner reservations, hours of awkward footage from Times Square of the latest Ryan-Seacrestian-hoster-of-things, and big expectations that no evening can match.

Forget it.

I’m happy to stay at home with my guys, and welcome the calendar change with Chinese takeout and junk food and video games and laughing. Which is pretty much the same stuff we do every other Saturday night, too.

I’m so thankful.

Happy New Year, and love to all.

Smile at people who take your money in stores, whether they smile back or not.

Skip the token advice. Let them talk it out.

Buy the red one.

Accept that you won’t really be teaching that driver a lesson.

Add a genuine thank you at the end of an email when someone does something for you, even when it’s their responsibility.

Watch your umbrella / purse / elbows / backpack when you’re near someone else’s face.

Squeeze the hand you’re holding.

Get out on the dance floor first.

Don’t point out how bad those pants look. They didn’t wear them to bug you.

Listen to that great song twice. Or 100 times.

Be on time.

Own your mistake, even if you could ambiguously leave it on someone else’s plate.

Carry your favorite candy always.

That email forward or “repost this status if you…”? Break the chain.

Take what you dish out.

Offer your seat to someone who looks more tired than you, regardless of their age or gender.

Bring something great to a friend’s party, not just a re-gift of what someone brought to yours.

Take pictures of sunsets.

Ask someone how they are — truly are — and listen to the answer, whether or not they ask you the same question in return.

Hold the elevator door. Don’t pretend you don’t see them.

Do the chore before you’re asked, without pointing it out for credit.

Enjoy things unironically.

Have dessert without letting everyone at the table know how guilty you feel for doing it.

Laugh at even the lame jokes.

Extend grace.

If there is a broken bit of sidewalk, or a hole in a lawn, or a doorknob that sticks out just a bit too far, or a nail that someone didn’t hammer down, or something teetering, just about to fall off a shelf…

… it will find me.

Most of my life, I’ve been the person people tell stories about at parties:

“My friend ran into a sign when she was riding an ice block down a hill and bashed off her toenails!”

“My friend tripped over a chair and broke all her fingers in one hand!”

“My friend was floating on a surfboard, and someone jumped on it, and it broke three ribs!”

“My friend had a full urn of coffee fly into her face at Starbucks!”

“My friend was walking through a dark forest and bumped into a deer, who kicked her in the shin so hard she has a scar!”

And it’s not that I really mind; our scars make us more interesting, everyone enjoys a good cringe story, and rarely does anyone point out that my pinky finger looks like a piece of driftwood.

But the fine art of being a dramatic klutz has begun to pale in comparison to, say, walking in heels without looking like a clown on stilts, or say, revealing my legs in a dress without looking like I’ve been caned.

I can do my hair up, put on my makeup, find a nice outfit to wear, and yet somehow, my ability to move gracefully through the world never quite kicks in to match the effort.

It’s not like I have some sort of biological or medical reason to be this way — sure, there’s been an inner ear thing now and then, when I have a cold or get dehydrated, but that’s only ever the icing on the pain cake. And sure, I’m not exactly a tiny flower faerie, mincing through petals on the breath of a butterfly.

But the sheer breadth of accidents — the ability to find the sharp rock, or locate the wasp’s nest, or tangle the sailboat rigging in my hair, or give myself a black eye with a blow dryer — points either to Nature’s desire to take me the hell out, or some sort of unique sixth sense about where to seek out bruises.

So is it possible to STOP being a klutz, when you’ve been a klutz all your life?

CAN you be more graceful?

And if so, could I stop wearing elbow pads and a helmet to take a shower?