New Years isn't something that was ever tradition when I was growing up. I remember bitterly spending it with my family. Or, even more bitterly yelling it in with our lamps defiantly on and my sister's wrist watch reminding us the rest of the world was partying. Once we avoided a party because the adults were going to have one upstairs, and us kids were going to party in the basement. Family first. I was bitter about that, too.
As I got older we spent New Years eve playing pool in our church basement or watching the ball drop in New York through my Grandma's television. One of the more memorable was being at the top of a pine tree. My sister and cousins perched on branches below me. Driving around town and trying to set off car alarms. I was bitter then, as well. My friend group had intentionally uninvited me. Or fighting on an Israeli beach at midnight in a country that doesn't really acknowledge the holiday. Or getting slurpees on a volunteer program that required us back by midnight.
I've kicked off too many of my years bitter and lost. My toughest break-up happened on a New Years day. Despite all this I still anticipate the holiday with a sort of respectful admiration. Maybe I have a little glimmer of optimism that insists on the possibility of fresh starts, dynamic celebration and successful resolutions.
Or maybe I'm just a fool.