Raise your hand if the mere thought of another New Year’s Eve makes you queasy with dread.
I’m all for auld lang syne and whatnot. A cup of cheer and thou beside me singing in the wilderness suits me fine. But the prospect of another loud, stimulant-fueled night of forced merriment to celebrate a new calendar leaves me less than thrilled.
I can count on one hand the New Year’s Eves in my life that actually lived up to the hype. I mean, seriously, in real life, how many times can you hope to: a) fall in love; b) achieve some sort of epiphany of hope and wisdom; or c) land a publishing contract, on the last night of the year? Let’s face it, to accomplish even one of those small miracles, on any day, at some point in your life, should be considered as cause for celebration. But to have to celebrate regardless of one’s current state (or status, if you accept the Facebook terminology) can transform what might be an ordinary night into an ordeal.
Still, ready or not, the champagne’s on ice, the crystal ball is suspended above the lurching mob in Times Square, and the tuxedo and tiara set, presumably, are polishing their dancing shoes.
Me, I’m searching the lists at Netflix hoping to come upon the perfect movie to distract me from the whole business.
But I do wish the whole world a Happy New Year. Preferably one in which fewer children starve. Considerably less violence against women would be good. Also less war.
If all the people who begin each New Year with the resolve to lose weight instead put that dedication toward being a little more compassionate, would the New Year be happier?
I’ll drink to that.