Or, I should say, rather, that I used to hate New Year's Eve, until I realized how much I was hating it, and then somehow, gave myself the permission to stop caring about it so freakin' much. And now I can relax and admit that right now I would much prefer staying home with my kids watching Star Wars instead of trudging out to some local performance in town and having "fun."
God I sound like such a Grinch! Let me explain. It's all the pressure to have some kind of amazing experience and get more wasted than one's usual judgement would allow. And for what? So I can prove to myself that my life is fun and worthwhile? That I am loved and cherished? The worst is the countdown. God forbid there is nobody there to kiss!
There have been many ups and downs of life, some truly wonderful times and dark and lonely ones, but I have never felt worse about myself than on some certain New Year's Eves. You know what I mean. Looking back, I think if I just could have relaxed and remembered that "all things must pass," it would've seemed at least okay.
My first memory of New Year's angst was at some point in adolescence, and I was staying up to midnight with my father and grandparents, in their old haunted hoarder house. (See the "barbie head" post.) Just that alone......I was celebrating with old relatives. At midnight my father uncorked a bottle of something and shouted "Happy New Year!" with so much embarrassing glee I wanted to melt into the floor, afraid that some of my peers, hundreds of miles away, might find out about this.
How sad is that. I want to go back and kick my adolescent butt. My dear father, gone now for almost 20 years, and I couldn't even appreciate a nice moment with him. I suppose that's typically how adolescence goes, but still. If I could have just halfway accepted the circumstances....I might not have been so miserable on New Year's Eve. Well, hopefully now I've finally learned my lesson!
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