
When I was a girl, I’d spend New Years Eve watching my parents get dressed up to go out. My sister and I would be in our pajamas, and my mom would put on her make-up with extra care. Lipstick and perfume. We’d wave as they went away, and then try to get the baby-sitter to let us have extra popcorn, or stay up until midnight. In the morning, we’d go downstairs to breakfast and find noise-makers and gilded hats made out of cardboard, souvenirs of the party. It seemed so glamorous. At my parents’ suggestion, my sister and I would make New Year resolutions. I’m not sure if this was to better ourselves, or to keep us quiet on a hung-over morning, but it was fun.
When I was a teenager, I was miserable on New Years Eve. I would be home from school, hundreds of miles away from my friends, usually alone. My parents would still go out, but I wasn’t so interested in watching them get dressed. I’d stay up, watching people on television having fun. In the morning, I’d resolve to kill myself before I’d ever be so miserable again.
As an adult, I’ve gone to some fabulous New Years Eve parties. One year, John and I went to five parties. After all, we live in New York City, the center of the known universe, and we know Very Important People. You, a mere reader, cannot possible imagine the things I’ve seen at these veritable happenings. (Okay, that’s not in any way true. You can imagine what I’ve seen. I’ve seen adults – some of whom are dressed in very expensive but unflattering clothes — having a few drinks, eating and talking, usually about real estate prices.) For a few years, I’d make resolutions, if only to please my therapist. Lipstick and perfume? Not so much.
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