New Year's Disillusion - PortlandBarFly.com
By Cortney Starr
The best New Year's Eve I ever celebrated was last year. I spent it on a plane over the Atlantic and the red states, flying home from a family Christmas in London. A few Xanax, some duty-free alcohol and no expectations - what could be better? Previous New Year's had been spent at: (God help me) Dante's; some parties somewhere; comforting a friend who had just been dumped by his boyfriend; and watching the celebration with my parents.
I start dreading New Year's Eve right around Thanksgiving. It's the night that defines the old Gatsby idiom: There is always a better party somewhere. I almost envy the bartenders and waitresses who spend the evening at work; at least they know where they have to be. Those of us not employed in the service industry spend the night stumbling from party to party, with drama around every corner. God help the designated driver (usually me, because none of my friends have cars). All the boredom and dashed expectations with none of the drunkenness. Have you ever tried to get directions from a drunk person? I'd rather chauffeur people with severe head injuries. And cleaning up vomit in your backseat the next day isn't exactly the greatest way to start off a year.
But what's the big deal? You can always just stay in, right? Yeah, I've tried that a few times. Some good friends, some good movies, a nice bottle of wine ... the perfect evening. Expect the clock will hit 11:30, and everyone will get twitchy. Visions of great parties or a midnight reconciliation with an old lover begins to dance in their heads. Someone's cell phone will ring, and the next thing you know, you're puking on someone's front lawn at 5 in the morning. Or walking in on your ex getting cozy with a 20-year-old. Or naked with a loser you ordinarily wouldn't give the time of day to.
People do stupid shit on New Year's. I know, people do stupid shit every night, but people really go over the top on New Year's Eve. The morning after pill hotline at Planned Parenthood rings off the hook. Noses and livers bleed. People sit across from strangers at breakfast, thinking, "How the hell did I get here?"
This year, I am really boycotting New Year's. I'm going to stay in, by myself, and drink a bottle of something fancy. I am going to watch "Party Monster" and remind myself just how shallow, lame and occasionally murderous those people are. I'm going to wake up the next morning, accompanied only by my cat, and not vomit or eat aspirin.Right?
Oh, who am I kidding? I'll just take this opportunity to apologize in advance to whoever's couch I puke on, whoever's closet I get naked in and the poor kid at the Plaid Pantry who'll get to hear my drunken commentary. Thank God this only happens once a year.
The best New Year's Eve I ever celebrated was last year. I spent it on a plane over the Atlantic and the red states, flying home from a family Christmas in London. A few Xanax, some duty-free alcohol and no expectations - what could be better? Previous New Year's had been spent at: (God help me) Dante's; some parties somewhere; comforting a friend who had just been dumped by his boyfriend; and watching the celebration with my parents.
I start dreading New Year's Eve right around Thanksgiving. It's the night that defines the old Gatsby idiom: There is always a better party somewhere. I almost envy the bartenders and waitresses who spend the evening at work; at least they know where they have to be. Those of us not employed in the service industry spend the night stumbling from party to party, with drama around every corner. God help the designated driver (usually me, because none of my friends have cars). All the boredom and dashed expectations with none of the drunkenness. Have you ever tried to get directions from a drunk person? I'd rather chauffeur people with severe head injuries. And cleaning up vomit in your backseat the next day isn't exactly the greatest way to start off a year.
But what's the big deal? You can always just stay in, right? Yeah, I've tried that a few times. Some good friends, some good movies, a nice bottle of wine ... the perfect evening. Expect the clock will hit 11:30, and everyone will get twitchy. Visions of great parties or a midnight reconciliation with an old lover begins to dance in their heads. Someone's cell phone will ring, and the next thing you know, you're puking on someone's front lawn at 5 in the morning. Or walking in on your ex getting cozy with a 20-year-old. Or naked with a loser you ordinarily wouldn't give the time of day to.
People do stupid shit on New Year's. I know, people do stupid shit every night, but people really go over the top on New Year's Eve. The morning after pill hotline at Planned Parenthood rings off the hook. Noses and livers bleed. People sit across from strangers at breakfast, thinking, "How the hell did I get here?"
This year, I am really boycotting New Year's. I'm going to stay in, by myself, and drink a bottle of something fancy. I am going to watch "Party Monster" and remind myself just how shallow, lame and occasionally murderous those people are. I'm going to wake up the next morning, accompanied only by my cat, and not vomit or eat aspirin.Right?
Oh, who am I kidding? I'll just take this opportunity to apologize in advance to whoever's couch I puke on, whoever's closet I get naked in and the poor kid at the Plaid Pantry who'll get to hear my drunken commentary. Thank God this only happens once a year.
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