For most people, New Year’s Eve is the party of the year – when absolutely everybody is festive, merry and drunk in the streets, hugging complete strangers, the glow of multi-coloured fireworks lighting up the skies above their smiling little noggins, seeing in January 1st from the wrong end of the dawn.
But for many of us, it’s hell on earth. The noise, the crowds, and the pressure of being forced into the world’s biggest scrum of compulsory fun.
In the Mamamia office, there’s a few ladies who are more than happy to skip out on the NYE participation award and just sit at home doing bloody well nothing. And it’s bliss.
Myself, I haven't partied, nor left my damn house, on New Year's Eve since I was 19 years old. Instead I began a little tradition - buying myself a fancy box of chocolates, you know, the kind you'd find in David Jones food hall with incomprehensible French words on the front, not to the kind that are stacked next to the Maltesers in Woolies. I eat the whole damn box as I watch the fireworks on TV.
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Since I live in the city, I can hear them bursting in the distance and as I lean out the window, catch some glimpses too, which always feels wistful and magical. Then, I go to bed - toasty, cosy bed, with the masses and their hooting and hollering and obnoxious singalongs of Wonderwall safely outside (side note: how do we stop drunk people singing en masse). I do this alone, and it's always immensely relaxing, reflective and not for a second do I feel like I miss out.