Dearest New Year’s Eve:
Well, well, well. I see you’ve come back for more. I’m quite certain it was just about a year ago when I told you to take your disappointing ways and haul ass away from me, but for some reason, bitches refuses to listen.
When I was under the age of 10 you sparkled in my eyes. My parents would let us stay up until midnight eating popcorn, and when the ball finally dropped to ring in the new year, we’d toast with Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider. It was fun, it was special, and sometimes our mom would even let us wear her lipstick. But then shit started to get fucked up.
When my 12th New Year’s Eve rolled around, my younger sister who was 10 at the time, decided to drink all the unfinished glasses of champagne at my parents’ party. Less than an hour later, with her head in the toilet and clearly drunk, I was to blame, sent to my room and didn’t get to have that Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider. Not cool, NYE. You were there, you saw it all and yet you let me take the fall when it was obviously your doing because if you had not been present, there would not have been free flowing champagne, my sister would not have discovered her love of the tasty adult beverage and I would not have been sent to my room. My sister never had Martinelli’s again after that night; she had gotten a taste of the good grown-up stuff and never looked back. It’s not fun to toast sparkling cider to your Care Bears every New Year’s Eve until you finally turn 21.
The following year you did it again. You ruined our family ski trip. We all stepped out on the porch of the condo to admire the view, the wind blew and the door, that was locked mind you, slammed shut and we were trapped there without anyone to hear our screams for help. Do you remember how high that porch was, NYE? Do you remember that my father eventually had to jump, broke his toe and then break into a first floor window? You should; you were there. By the time we finally got back inside, your BFF Dick Clark and his New Year’s Rockin’ Eve were already in full swing.
I won’t get into the awkward years of the high school New Year’s Eve parties I wasn’t invited to because I was a dork, nor will I cover my college years where you continued to let me down. I’m sorry, was it sophomore or junior year that I sprained my ankle? Oh, both? Yeah, that’s what I thought.
It appeared you had really outdone yourself in 1999 when my boyfriend at the time freaked out after taking too much acid while watching Twin Peaks and I spent the entire night babysitting him. However, I was wrong. It was in 2001 when you went above and beyond when my friend and I were held up at knife point on Calumet Street in Boston as we went for a beer run.
How did I spend January 1st 2005? In a police station trying to ID the asshole who stole my wallet right out of my handbag when I turned my head to ask for the check. Remember how all my cards had been maxed out at liquor stores in the East Village and also at the Associated supermarket on Avenue C within the half hour it took me to realize it was gone?
The next couple of New Year’s Eve that followed I attempted to lay low, but no matter how hard I tried, drama found me. It seems that even if you choose not to go out, living in the East Village and having friends who know exactly where you are, you’re pretty much a public toilet for passersby. Why vomit outside when you can use my bathroom, or in one particular case, my stairwell? You know, because it’s better than the bathroom at d.b.a. which refuses to get locks for those fucking stalls.
And of course, there’s no sense in bringing up how I decided to go out at the last minute last New Year’s Eve. I mean, does it really matter that ate it on the icy sidewalk within minutes of leaving my apartment and my bottle of wine went flying? Or as I lay there staring up at the starless New York City sky, I actually told you off quite loudly as people carefully walked around the crazy chick flat on her back in a sequin skirt?
I’ve never asked for anything special from you, New Year’s Eve. I’ve never insisted I must be kissed at midnight, as some do; nor have I demanded a When Harry Met Sally type ending where the love of my life runs several NYC blocks just to tell me: “It’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” Have I? No, I didn’t think so.
This year, I’m done. I’ve decided to stay the extra day in New Hampshire at my parents’ house. I will not be getting dressed up, I will not be wearing lipstick and when midnight rolls around, not only will I not be drinking champagne, but I plan to be in bed. I will have lobster for dinner, I’ll kick it on the couch with my dog and hopefully stumble upon a Law & Order marathon. And that will be that.
So, New Year’s Eve, in case you didn’t hear me loud and clear: suck it. You can do whatever you want with whomever else tonight, but I’m not up for another round. I’ll save my sequins for Tuesday morning at the gym like a normal person.