New Year’s Eve celebrations strike me as a young-person thing. I’m 43 and just can’t bring myself to care anymore. I partied my 20s away with a reckless abandon that left calluses on my liver, and I feel like I’m done.
The last New Year I celebrated was when 1999 ticked over to 2000. I was at my sister’s place, and all together we were about 15 people. I didn’t drink much.
Since then, many December 31st evenings my wife and I have been asleep before midnight. Once we were awake in bed, but not actually watching the clock strike midnight.
The last two years our kids have forced us to stay up because they wanted to ring it in, so we watched some New Year’s TV special and were in bed before 12:15am each time. This year if they want to stay up they can get themselves into bed. I plan on being asleep before 11pm so I can get up and run the next morning.
New Year’s is a popular time for drunken debauchery and “hooking up.” I still hate that term: “hooking up.” When I was younger you hooked up with your friends to go out and do something that involved keeping your clothes on. Having sex was called “having sex.” Or that other word Eddie Murphy is fond of. You know the one.
Man, I’m old.
And you know what? I don’t care. We’ve all got to grow up some time, and making a drunken fool of myself on a night when it’s socially acceptable to do so and having January 1st be a write-off every year is something I can live without.
Lucky for me, my wife is happy to do the same.
Maybe one day in the future if I get invited to some lavish New Year’s party with expensive catering — then we’ll go. Feel like inviting me to one?
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