I like New Year’s Eve. I always have. Despite the unnecessary pressure to come up with somewhere fantastic to toast the new year so as to post on all social media channels by 12:01 and even more pressure to lock down the perfect twelve o’clock kiss, there’s a bit of mystique built into an evening otherwise designed for disappointment.
What you may not know about me is that I’m missing the holiday gene. I don’t love Christmas carols, I couldn’t tell you the last time I decorated a tree, and I’ve spent the last two December 25th’s like Macaulay Culkin, home alone in Manhattan. A Grinch I am not, but because my family is so spread out across the country, the holiday season has taken on a bit of a different meaning to me. If you’ve never experienced New York on Christmas day, which most people have not, you are missing out on something truly magical. Empty sidewalks, closed cafes, and the absence of angry horns. Talk about silent night.
By the time December 31st rolls around, I’m more than ready to trade in the previous year for a newer model. I’ve got a list of bad habits I’m set to swear off, a newfangled collection of delusions for the year ahead, and a fresh pair of red knickers (for good luck, of course).
The places I’ve spent the last day of the year have been sordid and there are very few which warrant honorable mentions. As a matter of fact, I had to think for a moment where I even was last year. I danced the night away with new friends at Soho House and drank my body weight in champagne. I wore a black crepe de chine romper with lace tights. And as for this kiss? I was caught canoodling with a handsome young Frenchman. His name? Je ne sais pas.