New Year’s Eve is quite possibly the most overhyped holiday of all time. As a 26-year old woman, your options are the following:
1.) Purchase and wear a sequined dress while spending lots of money at a price-gauged and creeper-ridden open bar.
2.) Purchase and wear a sequined dress, and also an adult diaper, while waiting in the frigid New York winter air to watch a shitty pop star and have paper-wasting confetti rain down on you.
3.) Purchase and wear a sequined dress while bucking all overly sappy NYE trends and eating takeout Asian alone on your couch, ultimately crying in a final fit of cynical despair.
After a series of anticlimactic NYE’s, my friends and I settled for a combination of all three, starting the night at Port of Call buffet and wrapping it up in a basement, watching Ryan Seacrest (a sorry substitute for Dick Clark, I know). I had my fill of four plates of sushi and bang bang shrimp, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, and some creme brulee. We were highly overdressed, rocking our sequin-spangled, straight off the Express rack duds, in the middle of this casual family restaurant.
I think what anyone refuses to admit is that at a certain age (ahem), the novelty of staying up until midnight wears very thin. When you’ve pulled more all nighters than days in a calendar year, or routinely gotten piss drunk for no reason at all, it’s not fun staying up ’til Midnight because you have to. My theory is that the enjoyment of NYE is like a bell curve: incredibly exciting in your very young age, and once again when you’ve reached the parental stages and it becomes one of the only acceptable party hard days of the year. My recently legal brother happily supplied his usual party of friends with their first legitimately purchased alcohol supply. My parents, who work themselves into a tizzy throughout the year, painted the town red until 2 AM, far and above their latest bedtime in months.
The best part of my night was destroying Mark in Stack Cups and killing half a bottle of the most expensive champagne I’ve bought ($44. Baller status). As far as New Year nights go, it was middle of the road. I usually prefer cap off the night with an illegal fireworks display in the middle of Albion Park. Instead, I finished the evening with a Property Brothers marathon and an iTunes song buying spree. I woke up at noon, had a pretty awesome and unhealthy lunch (shrimp and bacon club with broccoli, plus a mega slice of cheesecake), avoided the sale rack at Lord and Taylor, did some errands and shit, read, ran 3 miles, and turned on the MacBook to slug this out. A nice mix of positive resolutions and Good, Ol’ Kristen.
This post wouldn’t be complete without sappy, unasked for wisdom to sum it up(which I have no problem imparting): All that matters- that ever matters- is that you spend New Year’s with people you give a fuck about, and people worth ending and starting with. It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing, where you go, or what you do- love who you’re with, and the rest of it will eventually take care of itself.