I’ve never really liked New Year’s Eve.
It was OK when I was younger. We’d bundle up and head to my friend Emelie’s house where we’d roast marshmallows on the biggest bonfire I’d ever seen. Our parents would swill wine and beer and we’d sneak off into the woods, racing fast, assuming, always, the inevitable boogey-man snatching. We’d take breaks in “the little house,” a cottage near the bonfire that smelled of raw wood and fresh paint.
In our early teens and even as recently as a few years ago we’d sneak over to the house, not really sneaking anymore, but the sensation was the same. We’d chug warm liquor and get high tucked down by the stairs, blowing smoke into starry nights. Give me that — just don’t give me New Year’s Eve.
Last year I kissed a guy who had just minutes before complimented my outfit. I’m very sure that he was gay; our dalliance was brief. The year before I kissed my then-boyfriend, after I snapped at him for flirting with other girls, which he wasn’t doing. He never did.
Oh, and the year before that I chased my sister into Nashville’s streets, yanking, hard, on her arm, trying to keep her from going home with strangers. We all made it back that night — in an unmarked van that the next day, didn’t feel like the taxi our desperate drunk selves had hoped it would be.
Needless to say, legal-drinking age NYE parties have not served me well. The high school ones — in between the little house and Music City — were various editions of Kraig’s garage, where one of my fondest memories is sitting on the bathroom floor with Erica, heating our asses with the only vent we could find. I’m serious, that was a nice time.
And yet, despite my cynicism and my insistence that New Year’s is my least favorite holiday (it’s just a calendar page, after all), I have decided to celebrate with all of the joy I can muster.
Because it’s a beautiful indulgence, isn’t it? To throw confetti in the air because you made it through another year, to swill throat-tingling champagne in honor of a foot in the next door? No, really, it’s not all that bad.
I know that NYE makes some people happy. I know that at one point in my life, the fireworks my dad shot off over our creek thrilled me to the bone. So, I’ve got one New Year’s resolution: enjoy New Year’s Eve.
I’ve seen peoples’ faces fall when I spit hate-fire at all things New Year’s. They like those photo booths with the mustaches! They live for the ball drop. They want glitter — they need it.
And for one night (and maybe, even for longer than that), they’re right. I can walk, sing, dance, love, and drink my weight in a red blend. Why waste time hating something when you can cheers to it?