For as many years as I can remember New Year's Eve has been an evening of excitement, good times, laughter, and anticipation for me. Ranging from small to large get-togethers with good friends to standing in Times Square, shivering and waiting for the ball to drop, it's always been a joy. I can remember that feeling of newness and starting fresh surging through me for weeks after New Year's Day.

This year however, was different. In all honesty, it just kind of snuck up on me. And, with Adrian's birthday, the anticipation and stress of Christmas, and the subsequent sigh of relief after it was all over, it's no wonder New Years wasn't doing much for me this year.

I had to work on New Year's Day, so going out the night before wasn't the most realistic of options anyway, but as it turns out, even if I had wanted to go out, babysitters charge a fortune on New Year's Eve.  It just wasn't worth it to me.

My best friend is also a single mom. "What are you doing New Year's Eve?" she asked me. "Nothing." I replied.

She wasn't doing anything either, so she invited us to her house for dinner and suggested that we could watch the ball drop on TV that night.

So, that's what we did. It was a windy, freezing cold night in New York on New Year's Eve. We went over to Rachel's house and had a fabulous dinner. Adrian played for a few hours and was the first to conk out around nine. Then Rachel and I then climbed into her comfy bed and popped in a Desperate Housewives DVD (I'm getting all of my friends hooked on that show) with plans to turn off the DVD and switch to the Times Square coverage a few minutes before midnight. We were both asleep before the first episode was over.

I slept, for a solid eleven hours for the first time since Adrian has been born. I awoke feeling rested in a way that I never thought I could feel again. A new, rested, ready-to-go me in time for the New Year.

What does it feel like to cross the “three year” mark? As my darling Samantha Jones says, “Fabulous!”

For all the FWW’ers who are moving beyond divorce, I will say that the healing and subsequent happiness comes in yearly blocks. In September, I celebrated the three year mark. Three whole years without that person who berated me on a daily basis, three whole years without feeling less than. It is remarkable.

So, depending on the year you are in, I’ve divided the full divorce departure process thusly:

Year One — The Year of Uncertainty

How will you feel?
Awful. Sad. Lonely. Miserable. Fearful. Dark. Uncertain. Angry. Confused. Somewhat Suicidal.
How will you behave?
Irratic. Crazy. Reclusive. Spontaneous. Withdrawn. Paranoid. (And, crazy, did I mention, crazy?)
What gets you through?
Alcohol. Chocolate. Long baths. Naps. Sleeping late. Comfort food. Your children’s laughter. Your friends’ support (even if you call at midnight, drunk and crying). And in my case, the complete collection of Sex and the City (all six seasons). Movies. Music.
What is the end result?
You survive and move into Year Two.

Year Two — The Year of Assimilation

I have to admit, you have been a hard year to live through. I have felt more pain in your 365 days than I have in all other years combined! (Except, perhaps, for 1990… my freshman year in High school.) Although I grew a lot over the past 12 months and have many things to thank you for, I am quite happy to say goodbye to you. In these final days, I hope you don’t mind if I say goodbye to all the things I hope to leave behind as you draw to a close and a young and hopeful 2009 takes your place.

Goodbye profound sadness! I have felt you seeping away little by little as visions of the future start to overlay snapshots of my final days with Ahmed. You have been a noble yet predatory emotion. You pounced on me in the strangest places: in movie theatres and subway cars, in the shower, in the mirror, and in the bed right before I fell asleep. You always seemed to catch me off guard, but I don’t resent you. You are a measure of how much I have loved and how much I will miss certain aspects of my marriage. Your painful grip on my heart has reminded me that I am alive. Still, I am not sorry to see you go… you are meant to be vivid and brief. I hope we will not meet again for a good long time…

Goodbye uncertainty! I have chosen my path now! There is no need to linger any longer. You have been dismissed. I won’t miss you and, although I am sure you will continue to pop up intermittently in the coming years, I doubt you will have such an impact on my other endeavors. You may take your two-headed loud-mouthed cacophony elsewhere. I can’t hear you now.

Here's what's funny. I don't remember what my husband and I did on New Year's Eve. I suppose we were at the ski house one year, or went to some party, maybe just stayed home. The point is: It doesn't matter what you do when you're married. Because you're married.

I do remember my husband's friend telling me her parents always played tennis on New Year's Eve. They reserved an indoor tennis court, played doubles with their best friends, then broke out chilled champagne and went home.

I was impressed. It sounded so civilized.

I don't remember what I did the first year after I was divorced. What I do remember of my dating years on New Year's Eve was anything but fun. I remember standing freezing in a slinky dress and high-heeled shoes, in slush in a New York street with my boyfriend, trying to catch a cab.

I remember another boyfriend, another time, getting caught between parties at midnight, trying to catch a cab.

Then there were the years I didn't have a boyfriend, plenty of them. Some years I gave a party, alone, and tried to get my guests to skip the kissing-at-midnight part. One year I stayed home alone, and got a surprise midnight phone call from a drunk-dialing ex-boyfriend.

I eventually learned that the worst part of New Year's Eve in New York City is transportation, so that eliminated going to the West Village or Soho, and forget about Brooklyn or the Bronx.

So I went (alone) to parties on the Upper West Side, walking distance, and tried to leave before the midnight kissing part.

My favorite neighborhood party was at a Victorian house near Central Park. The host was a college professor, the wife a painter. The guests were smart, funny, older, knew how to drink without getting drunk. Many of them abstained until midnight, at which point they stripped down to running clothes and hit Central Park for the four-mile road race.

The most honest holiday card I received this year started out with a bit of Christmas blasphemy: "Bah Humbug" it read, followed by a litany of recent woes:

"I went Christmas shopping today and a woman backed out of her parking space and whacked my car...Billy broke his ankle skateboarding. It required an operation and two screws. That's the good news. The bad news is that he's still skateboarding...Cal lost his job last March...We lost half our life savings in the stock market. Now when people ask my kids, 'How's your mom? They reply, 'She's never going to be able to retire.'"

A pretty bleak picture indeed.

But my friend goes on to say that her car is still drivable, Billy likes looking at the X-rays of the screws in his bone, Cal found a job in October, and her older son was transferring to an in-state college ("He always kind of wanted to go to UGA anyway"). And as for retirement, she is really quite thankful to have a job.

"Looking back on the year, it was a pretty good one after all," she writes, reminiscing about her son's high school graduation party, a visit to Nova Scotia with her cousin, a trip to Mexico with her college buddy (that would be me!).

"And I just finished decorating my tree. It's beautiful. Wishing you a wonderful Christmas, and health and happiness in the New Year."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

I've written about our happy days and sad, our intimacies and lack thereof, our dreams and traditions, and how those things have changed. Rob and I have both enjoyed each others' families and been hurt by them. Sometimes we've put each other first, and sometimes we've neglected each others' need entirely.

Rob has drunk himself near to death, stopped drinking altogether, and then found a balance. I've both searched for apartments so I could move out on my own, and gave my all to couples therapy in hopes we'd find the key to a happier marriage.

I've written extensively on my doubt, and shared my wavering heart as honestly as possible, even when my wishy-washiness seemed a terribly embarrassing mark of weakness.

In the throes of the holidays, with the New Year approaching, I've been playing my part as usual. Rob and I are having family and friends over tonight.

Who knows how we'll seem to some of them who don't know the troubles we've had, and who don't know we have a sexless marriage. Perhaps we'll seem the perfect hosts, with the perfect demeanor, with the perfect relationship.

But play-acting has never suited me, and I believe it's time for lasting change.

I'm not leaving Rob, and I'm no more sure about this marriage; I'm getting ready to leave you readers.

I joined First Wives World believing that through writing I would come to a better understanding of what was wrong with my relationship, and I would change it. Indeed, comments both online and off from readers have brought new perspective to my marriage, and I've felt both more empowered to take from life exactly what I want, and also more settled in present circumstances.

Overall, this is still an ill-fitting marriage. Perhaps I just need to grow up and let go of certain ideas about identity, or selfish dreams. Perhaps I need to learn how to better recapture the joy of youth here in present circumstances.

You don't KNOW if you don't TRY. So I'm applying myself to my marriage to see if it might work. And things are shifting.

Then at our last counseling session Rob spilled to our therapist that I had complained our work with her had been overly focused on him. I had told him that in confidence! I was horrified when — apparently unaware this would be a problem — he let on. I was left sitting there sheepishly, making excuses as to why I said what I said ("It was in jest!"), trying to convince her I had no problems with how things were going.

Anyway, I didn't mind the neglect. Rob is paying for these sessions; I guess the unbalanced attention allowed me to feel okay about not contributing to the fee. So as the therapist spent our time week after week asking Rob about his relationship to drinking and encouraging him to work on communication and connection, I didn't argue. It's not like I wouldn't benefit immensely from his improvements in those areas, so I watched patiently and hoped the work would stick.

And I assumed she felt it important for me to witness his determination and growth. Why else would she kinda ignore me for him all those times?

Whatever we're doing there, it seems to be working. I've felt more kindly and warm toward Rob. We're both more quiet and calm — with each other and others. I mean, I didn't even blow when he told our therapist about my complaints. It felt like a betrayal for him to embarrass me like that, but whatever. Perhaps I've finally learned not to sweat the small stuff.  

Re-reading my last post about not taking Rob to the end-of-yoga-teacher-training party, it worried me how desperately I wanted to avoid involving Rob in the new step I'm taking in my life. I wanted to avoid introducing him to my new friends. Is this telling? Does it mean that though I won't admit it to myself, what I really want is to have an altogether separate life from him?

Part of me wanted to bring him that night. After all, he's been incredibly helpful to me as I've been in the program — he gave me rides to the studio, made me dinners after a long days of training, and generally took care of things at home when I was swamped with homework. If I'm not sure my heart's in our relationship, am I taking advantage by accepting such support?

But there was that moment, in the midst of mingling at the party when I missed Rob. I met a fascinating filmmaker he would have had a great chat with. I thought of how much he would have loved to have been there, and maybe I even wished he was.

That's the thing about being married. There are moments when you are together but you long for independent experience. Then there are the moments when you are apart and you see something that you would have connected around, and you miss your mate. But life doesn't give you what you want when you want it. Maybe this isn't a case of "still haven't found what I'm looking for," and more a case of "still can't manage to grow up and settle in."