If you ask me, New Year’s Eve is overrated. It’s a holiday without presents, free candy, or flowers; instead, you get loud music, crowded bars, and beer spilled down your favorite dress. The last time I went to a party to celebrate, I was a sprightly 25 year old with a slim waist and shaved legs. Now, I’m a barrel-shaped hairy-legged sloth that wears a housecoat like it’s high fashion. I haven’t even made it to midnight since the kids were born; I’m fast asleep at 10:45, sprawled in bed like a beached walrus.
Sleep is more appealing now than being elbowed in the face as you’re trying to order drinks in a crowded bar. People are always pushy, the floor is always sticky, and the cocktails are always overpriced. My husband Jeremy and I once spent fifty dollars each on “all-inclusive” tickets to a New Year’s party at a bar. Turns out that “all-inclusive” meant weak, watery beer and cold pizza that I’m certain had been dropped on the floor (the cigarette butt masquerading as a mushroom was a dead giveaway). We stumbled home at dawn, reeking of second-hand smoke and cheap vodka, vowing to never suffer through forced gaiety again. The next year we had a great celebration; we stayed at home, drank champagne, and fell asleep on the couch in front of the TV. Now that’s what I call a party!
One year in particular sticks out in my mind; it was 1999, and society was panicking about the year 2000. Airplanes would fall out of the sky! The stock market would crash! Dogs and cats would rise and enslave humanity! This event was remarkable for many reasons:
- I was fifteen
- I had no money, no driver’s license, and no car
- I had no plans whatsoever
I was sitting at home, watching reruns of Mr. Bean on TV, when my mom wandered in and said, “happy new year”. All I could think was: “huh”. So, what happened to all the computers and planes and communication systems? What happened to the complete and utter chaos the news channels were promising? Nothing. Not a single thing.
Years later, I gave into the hype. I bought new shoes, a new dress, and a new belly-squishing girdle that promised to make me look like Marilyn Monroe. My waist looked great, but my fat rolls were squeezed up into my armpits. I took an expensive cab ride to a club, where I paid an exorbitant cover charge to enter, whereupon I shuffled back and forth between eight million adults all dancing to the Village People. Was it fun? Absolutely. Was it memorable? Definitely. Was it exhausting? I slept for two days straight afterward, and woke up not knowing what country I was in. My hangover didn’t kill me, but the remnants of my bank account almost did. The night ended up costing close to four hundred dollars, which was half my monthly rent at the time! A smart woman would have drawn a line in the sand and tempered her spending for the next New Year’s party. I am not a smart woman. The next year I spent close to six hundred dollars and wept at the bank machine the next morning.
Learn from my many mistakes. This year, forget the girdles and the pantyhose, the loud bars, and expensive taxis. Embrace sweatpants, fuzzy socks, and early bedtimes; they’re the real heroes of adulthood. Greet the new year the next morning, with a clear head and vodka-free clothes; your brain and your bank account will thank you!
