From Bondi to Bedtime: The Sad Decline of a Party Animal
I can't remember when I stopped caring about New Year's Eve, but the fact that I can’t remember tells me it must have been years ago. The last party I vividly recall was on the roof of our apartment in Bondi. I insisted on making frozen margaritas for everyone, and it turned out to be a great night. I remember it fondly, but that was before the kids were born—so, we’re talking a couple of decades ago.
I think we might’ve done one or two New Year’s outings after that, but once we landed on Planet Parenthood, our days of tearing it up for New Year’s Eve were over. I can’t say I miss it.
As the years roll on, my ability to drink without consequences—or, perhaps more accurately, my ability to not care about the consequences—has dwindled. These days, my simple, slightly sad pleasure is going to bed early on New Year’s Eve. I sometimes even skip the early fireworks meant for the kiddies. Instead, I get up early the next morning to walk the dogs and enjoy the peace of an almost-empty world and occasionally, a drunk or two sprawled out on a park bench or groaning in the gutter.
Yes, it’s petty. But it’s better to know who I am, I think, and to accept that.
If you’re planning a big one, good luck to you.
I found that existential angst and ennui would hit me hard on new year's; and spending it in crowds of drunk people attempting to have the time of their lives only made it worse, so I would stay home and be anti social instead. I can't recall when the ennui and angst stopped visiting on NYE, but my habit of staying home and avoiding all the peoplely places is locked in.
I've now reached the stage of life where I don't even bother to stay up and watch the new year tick over, I just finish watching whatever I've chosen to amuse myself with for the evening (last night it was Carry On, which was a delightfully non cerebral (literal) airport thriller on Netflix) and retire to bed with the feline overlords. Bliss.
I got cured of the "seeing in the new year" thing years ago when I was still (relatively) young. We lived next door to the local haymaking contractor - which meant our property was his first job after Christmas at home with the family. Long story short it meant that our hay got baled on either the 31st or the 1st. Either way you were totally knackered after a hard day in the sun getting all the bales in the barn on New Years Eve, or knew you couldn't tackle the job on New Years Day after partying hard past midnight. When we finally quit the country life for a city apartment we discovered the joys of long lunches in the sun and early nights. And yeah - getting up early the next day and having the world to yourself while everyone else sleeps it off - never gets old.