To be honest, I’ve never been a big fan of New Year’s. Maybe it is because I’m not one for drinking and staying up past ten. Or maybe it is because all of the excitement and apprehension makes me a little nervous. Or maybe it is because I’ve never understood the idea of making New Year’s resolutions (I’m more of the daily resolution type). Or maybe it is because I’m already so exhausted from Christmas that one more party seems unbearable.
Regardless of my anti-New Year’s philosophy, when New Year’s rolls around every year, I rally. I go to parties with friends. I watch Dick Clark and the ball drop. I kiss my partner at midnight. I drink a glass of cranberry juice and peach schnapps, having the bartender top the same drink off with cranberry juice throughout the night. And I sing the first few words to Auld Lang Syne, before realizing those are the only words I know.
But the next morning, I don’t feel any different. Dec. 31 and Jan. 1 hold the same joys and challenges, responsibilities and regrets. And I wonder how it might feel to be someone who puts more stock in New Year’s. Would I wake up on Jan. 1 filled with a little hope and promise?