I have had about 50 New Year's eves in my life. Some of them have been memorable. There have been - in no special order of importance, frequency or chronological correctness - drunken frolics, wild parties, city celebrations, quiet nights at home, abstemiously pregnant early nights, kisses, misses, broken resolutions, falling asleep on public transport nights, arguments about driving too fast, and once even a looong walk home in fancy dress after being thrown out of the car by the person whose too-fast driving I had complained about. That one was kind of embarrassing. Even more embarrassing was the fact that I still went through with the wedding, even after such humiliation. I should've known better...
Then there was the night that was supposed to bring in the much talked-about y2K disaster... what a fizzer that was, although I must confess to a certain amount of relief. I watched the New Year's eve telecasts from around the world, and when the New Zealand one didn't go dead at their stroke of midnight, two hours ahead of Canberra's, I went into the garage and looked at my understocked y2K cupboard with a faint sneer.
"I knew it wouldn't happen all along," I said to fourteen tins of baked beans and a packet of celery seeds.
There was no fanfare this year. Just aches and pains, lots of green stuff and a killer sore throat. I spent the entire day and night of New Year's eve in my bed, moaning and groaning and being woken occasionally by the arrival of cheery text messages from hordes of other people who weren't being misery gutses and wallowing in their own mucous. Eeeew, now there's a mental picture!
This morning, as the aches and pains and the tide of snot recede, I remember that I forgot, in my enfeebled state, to make any New Year's resolutions. This is immensely cheering.
Resolutions are a yearly reminder of my total inability to stick with anything that might improve me as a person. Annually I resolve to be tidier, to lose weight, to exercise, to save more and to drink less - and annually I don't do any of these things. My resolve lasts anything from 10 minutes to about 3 weeks before I inevitably slide back into my shambolic lifestyle, a glass of red in hand and my feet up on the coffee table. If I bother to remove my bike boots I'll notice there are holes in my socks - and I won't even care.
So.... this year I may have missed the fun, but I've also avoided the failure! Wheeeeeeeeee! Now.... out to the bike shed to wish The Bomber a Happy New Year and to decide where to ride my messy flabby badly dressed (but contented) self to today?