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.

Yes, this is how I remember it.

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.