In order to save everyone the hassle of asking me what I have planned for New Year’s Eve, I will just say here that I have no plans for New Year’s Eve. But my planlessness is intentional, on purpose, and planned, so don’t cry for me, Argentina. (You either, Peru.) No, I have no plans, and yes, we have no bananas (actually, I think I do have one, but I’m not sure), but that’s the way I want it, and that’s the way it’s staying.
I’m not going to a fancy dinner. Or a party. Or a club. I’m not getting dressed up all pretty-like. I’m not rolling up the rug and then cutting it. I’m not participating in any hooha, hullaballoo, or hanky-panky with the hoi polloi. And no matter how much Dick Clark begs and wheedles and cajoles and bribes me, I am absolutely not going anywhere near Times Square. The only ball I’m going to see is the one that Taxi plops on the sofa next to me in an attempt to engage me in a rollickin’ game of fetch. That’s it.
I just detest New Year’s Eve. It doesn’t matter where I spend it, either. I’ve spent it here, in Manhattan. And many a “there”, including, but not limited to, Spain, France, and Portugal (but can’t recall the specific cities [specificities?]). But location makes no difference: New Year’s Eve does nothing for me.
I’ve heard that whatever you’re doing when the clock strikes 12:00 a.m. and the ball reaches the ground, is what you’ll be doing for the rest of the year. One year I was — brace yourself — doing step aerobics (yes, it’s true!). Another I was on the phone with someone I couldn’t be with in person when he was with someone he didn’t want to be with (which is obvious, of course, given that he was on the phone). Another year I was having a picnic on a bed in Spain, gorging myself on all sorts of Spanish junk food delicacies. Those were the good times.
The worst celebration was when 1987 was forced out of the picture by 1988 and I was forced into Philadelphia by my then-boyfriend and a couple of our friends to have the time of our lives. Even before midnight, we were ready to leave, and wound up wishing we’d never left home in the first place. At midnight, I think I was complaining and pissed off. Which proved that yes, that whole thing about spending the next year the way you did at the stroke of midnight, is true.
It’s not that I don’t like that another year has passed. I don’t care. There’s nothing I can do about that. It’s just the desperation of the celebration that I detest. The forced cheer. The special deals (dinner and dancing, prix fixe, surrounded by pricks). The pressure to do something big and bold and spectacular, just because the planet completed another orbit around the sun.
Let’s just toss New Year’s Eve on top of the obligatory holiday compost heap and call it a night. Because that’s all it really is anyway.