I've never been a fan of New Year's Eve--it's an overrated holiday for amateurs. I hated working it when I tended bar, all the fuss over counting down and noisemakers and champagne. I despise the forced sentimentality of the lists and "best of" everywhere I look starting the day after Christmas. We never make plans--we never can because half the time we're out of town celebrating with D's family the weekend after Christmas--so it ends up being a night we're invited out, but we always say no, so then, after a while, people stop extending invitations. On New Year's Eve I don't even understand half the crap on TV--the countdowns, celebrities I don't recognize, music I find annoying--our best bet is to rent movies, but then everyone in town has the same idea so pickings are slim on the years we are home. And back when I belonged to a gym, New Year's marked the moment that, for a whole month, it became impossible to work out because the equipment and locker room were clogged with people who all of a sudden started showing up because of this arbitrary date. I find nearly everything about New Year's Eve vexing.
Except one thing.
One goofy, silly, ridiculous thing I enjoy about this day.
I like saying "until next year" in practically every other sentence. It makes everything sound inflated and important, even the most trivial declarations seem meaningful today.
I won't drive that car until next year.
I won't drink coffee until next year.
I won't take a shower until next year.
I won't write another post until next year.
I won't go to the store until next year.
I won't do laundry until next year.
I won't see you until next year.
I won't head into the woods until next year.
I won't feed the birds until next year.
I won't eat bananas until next year.
I won't pay a bill until next year.
I won't leave the house until next year.
So, dear reader, until next year.