THERE are a few days of the year when it is best advised to stay as far away from the rest of humanity as possible — one is Valentine’s Day, one is the ludicrously and undeservedly popular nightmare that has become Black Friday and another is New Year’s Eve.
This, I realise, is an unpopular opinion. We’ve been conditioned to believe we have to mark the last night of the year in some way (usually with a tray of shots and a face plant with someone you might have gone to college with). I get why people want big blowout parties, corkpopping countdowns and such. We need punctuation marks in our lives to stop us feeling like it’s just one continuous crawl from the cradle to the grave.
For years, I went along with the crowd and queued for terrible nightclubs and pretended to be excited about the approach of midnight. I don’t remember who I was with or if I had a good time but I do recall it always ended with me outside the Imperial Hotel in Cork at 3am while taxis sped by in the pouring rain.
New Year’s Eve is the most anti-climatic night of the year. Yes, you drank too much and have already broken the quit smoking resolution by going out for a fag before the last verse of Auld Lang Syne. But worse than that is the fact that you’ve woken up with the person you passionately kissed at midnight snoring next to you and 2018’s dishes still piled in the sink. Nothing’s changed except your bank account is now in overdraft.
So, I’ve taken a very un-me approach to New Year’s. Instead of drinking through the pain (my go-to), I stay in, sober. Last year I got into bed at 10.30, pulled the duvet over my head and was asleep by 11. This year I’ll be doing the very same thing. Nighty night 2018.