A few months ago, right when summer was winding down, I wrote a column about how that was the real “new year.” At that point in the year, there’s a noticeable change of season. It’s the beginning of a new school year for children — the feeling of one door closing and another opening is almost tangible.
The real New Year? What a dud.
This will be the third year in a row that I’ve complained about what I consider to be the worst of all the major holidays, and as long as I’m writing this column, I know I’ll always have my topic picked out for this week.
“Holiday” is really too kind a word. What exactly is this a holiday of? During Thanksgiving, we celebrate gratitude and family. Christmas is pretty self-explanatory — and if you disagree, please refer to my column from last week. After that, you get days like Valentine’s Day to celebrate a loved one (although I may have a bone to pick with this one in a month or so), or civic holidays like Memorial Day and the Fourth of July.
But New Year’s is just a day on the calendar. Simply sticking it in the middle of all these other important holidays doesn’t give it any real significance by some holiday transitive property. The only thing that separates it from the other 364 days is that it comes first. All of the “best” New Year’s traditions are easily replicated — if not outright surpassed — on any other night of the year.
When I think of New Year’s Eve, the first thing that comes to mind is the crowds. They’re everywhere. Crowds at the bar trying to get drinks, followed about 30 minutes later by crowds on line for the bathroom because of said drinks. And then there’s Times Square — the granddaddy of them all when it comes to crowds — a truly worst-nightmare scenario for someone who suffers from enochlophobia. (Google tells me that means a fear of crowds.)
I hate crowds. I avoid them at all costs. Literally. I would pay to avoid them if possible. But if crowds are what you’re looking for, they’re a dime a dozen around these parts. Forget Manhattan, if there’s a good band playing at a local bar, you can easily get your crowd fix. There’s no need to go be the only actual New Yorker in Times Square to watch a giant disco ball slowly slide 30 feet down a pole.
I don’t think I’m that old, but just the thought of forcing myself to stay up until midnight makes me tired. I don’t want to be disingenuous here — there are plenty of nights when I break the “nothing good happens after midnight” rule. But those nights almost never start with that stated intention. In fact, they almost always begin with the exact opposite goal: “I promise, I’m just going for one or two.”
Then you run into so-and-so, you know who’s behind the bar, someone walks in that you haven’t seen in a fortnight, and the next thing you know the lights are getting turned on and you’re wondering where the night went. Those are the absolute best nights — even if you pay for them dearly the next morning. New Year’s Eve, on the other hand, reverses the whole equation and, in turn, delivers the inverse result — with all of the next-morning pain just the same.
You know what? Maybe there is one New Year’s Eve tradition that can actually claim to be unique: kissing strangers. I mean, in a non-gross, drunk way. It really is the only night when that’s socially acceptable.
Congratulations, New Year’s. Bully for you.
Maybe one year, when the dates fall perfectly, I’ll switch this annual column up on everyone. I’ll go to the ball drop. I’ll do it for the column. I’ll wait on the lines, strap on the diaper, and bounce up and down in place for hours, trying to keep my extremities from freezing off — all so I can write 600 words about it.
Does that count as a New Year’s resolution? Because that’s one I would love to break.
