I’m so over the whole New Year’s Eve thing. Which is one of the few good things about getting older.
When I was a kid, every New Year’s Eve I’d watch my mother getting dressed up for a party, especially one night she wore a tight white satin dress with a shocking pink satin coat. In the morning they would give us party hats and noisemakers and other souvenirs from the night before. And I could hardly wait till I was old enough to go out someday in my own dazzling outfit for a glamorous New Year’s Eve celebration.
I definitely had my chance to celebrate a lot of New Year’s Eves. By now, they’re all water (and champagne) under the bridge. For all the energy I put in towards having a date and how to celebrate and what would I wear, swear to god I can’t picture a single one of my own outfits the way I remember my mother’s.
As for the events, most of them are a blur. The New Year’s Eves that are most memorable are the disasters. Like the night after a fancy dinner in Miami when the valet brought the car and my date opened my door and threw up on me. Or the New Year’s Eve on a trip to Europe with my new husband, who at midnight was snoring while I sat in bed watching bowling on TV–in Portuguese. Another hotel, in Hawaii, the year I was bald from cancer, V was asleep and I greeted the New Year alone in the hallway outside our room, sobbing. A few years later was the millenium New Years–when everyone was awake at midnight but we were stuck in a mob at City Walk in Los Angeles–me, the kids, my husband AND my ex-husband.
Is there a lesson to be drawn here? I’m not sure. But I do know this. Whether V makes it to midnight or not, I will be awake to greet 2009. Without a party hat or noisemaker. Wearing pajamas instead of a pink satin coat. And after a lifetime of experience, I have learned this: however you spend the night before, a great New Year’s celebration means that you wake up in the morning on New Year’s Day and you’re still there to tell about it.
Happy New Year to all.