Can someone please explain to me why we’re still celebrating New Year’s Eve?
I really don’t understand why it’s exciting to anyone over ten. When you’re little, and you have a bedtime, the Big Deal is that you get to stay up until midnight. How exciting! It’s a world you’re excluded from 364 nights a year, but on this one special night, the grown-ups are letting you join them! Hooray!
And then you grow up. For adults who normally go to sleep before midnight, New Year’s Eve is an annual night of torturing yourself and portioning out the caffeine just right so you can conform to societal norms. For those like me, who usually stay up until midnight or later, the whole point is completely lost. Oh, look, the clock says some numbers. Now it says some different ones. Why did you drag me away from Twitter for this, again?
Why is a party on this night better than a party on any other night? Because you get to kiss someone at midnight? Don’t tell me what to do with my lips, man. I have someone who I’m allowed to kiss on the regular, and I’ll kiss him when I damn well please, not because a clinking glass, a Jumbotron camera, or a clock told me to. Stay out of my business, inanimate objects.
For those who don’t have a designated set of lips to which they’re welcome, that’s a whole different can of awkward worms, leading to full-blown panics about whom they do or do not want to be standing by at midnight. You know, come to think of it, Awkward Worms would make a really cute web comic. But that’s neither here nor there. Moving on!
Now that you’ve been awkwardly kissed, you have to make the treacherous drive home, with snow banks to the right of you and drunk drivers to the left (or vice-versa for my British friends). It’s terrifying! Why did you even go out in the first place?
It’s even worse when you’re the host, as I usually am. Midnight comes, and I start desperately hiding people’s shoes and shouting, “Hey, guys, just because it’s midnight doesn’t mean the party’s over!” Whose brilliant idea was it to center a whole holiday (two, really, if you count New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day) around one split second in time? When Halloween’s over, you still have your candy. When Thanksgiving ends, you’ve got turkey for miles. Hanukkah and Christmas pass, and you’ve got all your new toys.
But the New Year isn’t something that you savor. It’s literally over no later than 12:01 am. You yell, kiss, pound two ounces of champagne (because nobody ever buys enough), maybe blow into a vuvuzela if you’re terrible, and then it’s over. And you’re left feeling as empty and dead inside as Ryan Seacrest on your TV screen. Only with the millions of dollars.
Fuck that. New Year’s Eve, you are the absolute worst.
This post originally appeared on In the Powder Room