The Ghosts of New Year's Eves Past

My New Year’s resolution is to start writing again! In order to do that I am going to restart my blog.  I’m going to try and post something once a week. 

I have had great success in the past with my New Year’s resolutions:

In 2014 I resolved to get healthy and fit, I started eating healthier and going to the gym almost every day and in the process, lost 45lbs.

In 2012 I gave up potato chips for a whole year—a difficult thing for anyone, but my friends and family know how hard it was for me.

And a few years before that, I gave up creamer in my coffee (another attempt to be slightly healthier).  I’ve been drinking it black ever since.

And I hope to stick to this resolution the same way.  I’ll start by telling you some New Years throwback stories.

I’ve never been a big fan of New Years.  The holiday itself I understand, new beginnings and everything, but I haven’t had very many good times on the 31^st of December—lets be real here, that’s when the real celebrating happens.

I remember one time when I was younger, probably before high school, that my family and I went to First Night in Boston. I think the year was 2002.  In typical New England fashion, it was freezing—or, more likely, a few degrees below.  There were ice sculptures and music and the whole celebration was very nice I’m sure, but we were cold.  I honestly don’t remember having a bad time… but I don’t remember having a good time either.  I do remember that my older sister got frostbite on her pinky finger.  We took the subway home and my mom held my sister’s finger between her palms while rubbing and blowing warm air onto it.  That’s all I really remember.  I haven’t been to a city celebration like that since.

The next New Year’s I can think of was in 8^th grade.  I had just started dating a boy named Matt.  At the time, he was cute, funny and rebellious.  We went to my best friend’s house and it was just three or four of us hanging out, eating chips and onion dip and watching South Park. We changed the channel for the ball to drop and I was all excited for Matt to kiss me at midnight. After all, it was my first New Years with a boyfriend!  Well, we all counted down and when we hit one, Matt hugged me!  Not an okay response for a 13-year-old-girl.  I later found out that he didn’t want to kiss me because my breath smelled.  Let me now refer you back to the entrée of the night—chips and ONION dip.  Can you blame me?

The worst New Years came in high school, when my two best friends were both dating college guys.  I think we were going into 2008, the middle of my junior year.  Together, the three of us drove half an hour to a house party where we would meet up with their boyfriends and all of their friends. There were about fifteen guys there (all older) and maybe two or three other girls. I felt a little uncomfortable not knowing many people, but my two best friends were there… so what could go wrong?

A few hours into the party, everyone was nice and tipsy.  I stayed sober because I was the designated driver—which I probably elected myself for because I was around a bunch of older guys, who were all strangers to me.  Around 11 or 11:30, my two friends were right at that point of drunkenness where all you want to do is have sex.  So they and there boyfriends went upstairs (separately of course).  I sat awkwardly on the couch and watched TV while listening to drunken conversations.  At some point in the night, the other females at the party decided this place wasn’t their style, so they all left for another party down the road, leaving me alone in a sausage-fest of male companions. Time dragged on as I tried to send desperate telepathic messages to my friends upstairs.

A few minutes before the ball dropped, Jimbo—the fat bassist from the band, with long wavy brown hair down to his plumbers crack—plopped down on the couch next to me, and kindly asked if I would kiss him at midnight.  I politely declined his offer and tried to find a way to avoid his drunken lips for the foreseeable future. My friends returned before the ball dropped, and we must have left at some point, but I will never forget the fat drunk bassist who asked for a New Year’s kiss.

I don’t think I have been to a New Year’s party since then, but I am quite content just sitting on the couch with a bag of potato chips watching the Twilight Zone marathon on the Sci-Fi network.  Some traditions are okay by me, like resolutions—especially if I can make it last the whole year.