As the end of 2015 approaches, it seems only fair to share the story of the best New Year’s Eve of my life.
The drinks were flowing. The party was jumping. Somebody hit play on Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” just as the fireworks began to light up the night sky. People who were strangers at the beginning of the night held hands, dewy-eyed, and shouted “HAPPY NEW YEAR” in unison when the clock hit midnight.
Meanwhile, I was at a McDonald’s drive thru, ordering chicken nuggets and having a ball.
Yes, I left a party before midnight on New Year’s Eve. (Shock! Horror! How could you! etc.)
I know, I know. I am a soul-crushing destroyer of fun. But there’s nothing that breaks me out in a cold, nervous sweat like the pressure to have THE BEST NIGHT EVER (!!!!!) on New Year’s Eve.
Spontaneous fun? I’m in.
Drinking with grim determination to make sure you’re drunk enough at midnight and pretending to be having “THE BEST TIME!!!!” when aggressively questioned about your enjoyment levels? I’m out.
I spent a lot of time this year frantically planning for New Year’s Eve. What’s better, a house party or a club? A few drinks with friends overlooking the harbour or a boozy night in a park? Should I go to the event that promises to be “THE MOST FUN YOU’LL EVER HAVE” or the one that claims to be “THE ULTIMATE IN ULTIMATE NEW YEAR’S EVE ENTERTAINMENT?”