You know the notion (likely learned from watching The O.C.) claiming that the wayÂ you spend your New Yearâ€™s Eve will determine the rest of your year? Yeah, well, thatâ€™s bullshit. Itâ€™s merely a quixotic attempt for the love drunk to ensure stability in their relationships. Meanwhile, inducing guilt for those of us intending to ring in 2014 wearing sweatpants, slippers and pizza sauce.
Two winters ago, on the Eve of the encroaching January, I was wildly attracted to this theory. To me, the prospect of dressing glamorously in glitter, drinking seemingly endless glasses of bubbling champagne, and then sealing my fate at midnight with a Cinderella-esque kiss all sounded like a fabulous precursor for the upcoming year.
Yet what isn’t glorified in the Rom-Com’s are the realistic details your expectations ignore. The fact that the overindulgence of popped bottles results in vomit and sloppy hookups with strangers (i.e., regret), or in my case, the emergency room.
Ah yes, in spite of my sheer pink dress, curled hair, perfected fantasy, and high heels, a true hazard considering the eight feet of snow, I was defeated by NYE. My idiotic, now ex-boyfriend chased his Wild Turkey whiskey with cheap tequila and leftover Jell-O shots from Christmas. He spent the night grinding with a big-boobed blonde and kissed my roommate when the clock struck 12. He insisted that I was too wasted and never told me I looked prettyâ€”although “cute” or â€śniceâ€ť would’ve also sufficed. The romanticizedÂ version of the New Years Eve I envisioned was quickly deluged with worst-case scenarios and a frigid hangover.
And yet, the moment I forfeited the loser I’d hoped to have in my future, or at the very least indulge in a mind-blowing kiss with, elevated from a drunk and stupid imbecile to an inebriated and moronic gymnast. He impetuously decided to demonstrate his extent of calisthenics, because what good house party doesn’t broadcast (in)flexibility? My 6 foot-4 inch-240-pound-boyfriend-whatever proceeded to execute a round off and managed to hurl his body into a wall mirror. Glass shattered, stained with blood, illuminating our horrified reactions; a night of broken promises, reflections. I remember staring into a diamond shaped shard fleetingly before rushing to the beastâ€™s aid, finding slight humor in the ever so blatant symbolism.
Eight stitches, two hospitals, four arguments, and one hour of sleep later, I returned to work, contemplating how this sequence of ill-fated events might affect my entire year. I’m inclined to blame CarsonÂ DalyÂ and his numerous MTV countdowns for the demise of my hopes on this superstitiousÂ holiday.
But my year wasnâ€™t tainted; the outcome of January first was no presage to the upcoming seasons. NYE, much to the dismay of Summer Roberts, was not a foreshadowing of haunted bad luck aside from the usual quotidian qualms and intrinsic clumsiness. I havenâ€™t stepped on broken glass since my senior week of college, in which, with the abundance of beer and wine bottles, such an endeavor was inevitable; Iâ€™ve never needed stitches and Iâ€™ve since kissed other guys.
Last New Year’s Eve, I fell asleep shamelessly, on the couch at approximately 10:30 PM with a gigantic sugar cookie. In spite of what my actions mightâ€™ve implied, 2013 was fast paced, chaotic and eventful in its entirety and not riddled with lethargy. Tuesday, my plans were low-key, involving local IPA’s, mellow music and good company.
Now, I have absolutely no expectations, assumptions, or predictions of what 2014 will hold. I am not a believer in the theoretical correlation between New Yearâ€™s night and the New Year, so, cheers to those of you who had shitty Eveâ€™s! Mostly though, I will be forever grateful to ring in the rest of my Januaryâ€™s without hybrid shots of Jell-O, tequila and Wild Turkey.
Photo: flickr creative commons, Philip Clarkson