After quite a bit of uninterrupted staring, I’ve concluded that my list of New Year’s resolutions (develop an inner life; take salsa) is less indicative of what my 2011 will look like than the weekend I spent entering it.

It’s impossible on the eve of the New Year not to think back to how you spent the last one, and try to cull meaning from how different/better/saner this year’s going to be.

For me, 2010 was a great year, professionally, and a terrifically shitty one when it came to my personal life. It looked sharply up toward the end, but the beginning of 2010 was a low point — one that, if extended, could have landed me on Maury. We won’t speak of it.

Instead, we’ll delve into how the one-year-more-mature moi welcomed the new year, one that I need desperately to contain less suckage:

There was the H2 limo excursion to Hobby — not the performing arts center, the airport; a Meteor shower; my first, faltering attempt to host a family dinner at my own home, with NYE confetti still festooned in my curls; new friends; really, really old, recently reappeared friends; a band of singing, toasting Irishmen and introducing my mother to Absolut Citron. In short: I’m afraid.

Yes, if the way you spend your New Year’s Eve weekend is any indication of how the year will continue, I have much to brace myself for.

One sister is growing up, accompanying me to bars and passing out on my couch. The other is deeply offended that we’d suggest 14 is too young to be penning a memoir. Friends are in a constant state of flux, flopping into our lives with as little fanfare as they discreetly filter out. And, apparently, there’s no slowing down.

On the first day of the new year, after a long day of recovery, lucky food with the family and, finally, a few margaritas over a quiet dinner at the original Ninfa’s, we had decided to play it low-key and catch a movie. But God evidently had other plans, as he so often does for me, because no sooner did True Grit sell out at Edwards than I got a text that would change it all: “I know this is random, but can I interest u in an H2011 limo experience tonight?”

Now, when life gives you lemons, you make vodka lemonade. And when someone invites you to rent a Hummer limo and take it to an array of bars that range from Meteor to Rebels, you don’t refuse. And so it was that I, along with another couple, a dozen new friends and my recently relocated, here-to-fore-sheltered, Midwestern manpanion ended up doing Tequila poppers in the back of a stretch-H2 with Whip Yo Hair on repeat.

Memories were certainly made, and then lost. Sexuality might even have been questioned.

But there is a glimmer of hope to be gleaned from all this. By the looks of it, my 2011 will be such a hot, sticky mess that coming up with a resolution for 2012 should be a cinch: Girl, get your head right.