I have a confession to make: I fucking hate New Year’s Eve. I’ve honestly had it with the overwhelming social pressure to go-out-and-have-a-fuck-ton-of-fun-or-else on this most overhyped night of the year. I apologize if I offend all the party people inna house, but it’s true.
I wasn’t always such a wet blanket. Like every 20-something who thinks vomiting out your nose is a lofty goal, I used to look forward to New Year’s Eve the way a pedophile looks forward to his first day on the job as the mall Santa. But as each NYE passed, I began to quickly realize that what was supposed to be a rip-roarin’ eve o’pleasure never quite lived up to my expectations.
These days, a night out on New Year’s sounds about as appealing as a three-way with my parents. I’ll give you six reasons why:
At the risk of sounding all George Costanza-y, I have to say that everything on this night is more overpriced than a pack of Gummi Bears in the Ritz Carlton minibar. Restaurants will charge upwards of $150 a head for a prix-fixe menu offering the equivalent of SpaghettiO’s and a Kit Kat with whipped cream. Clubs sucker party-goers into forking over $250 for a VIP pass, which affords you a glass of cheap sparkling wine and a plastic kazoo at midnight. And if you live in LA like yours truly, you must choose to pay $75 to park your car five blocks from the bar or $95 for a cab you’ll have to wait three hours for.
There’s really no such thing as stepping out casual on New Year’s unless you’re going to some sort of church-sponsored shuffleboard tournament. Dressy attire is required as is the obligation to look hot, and if you’re a woman that generally means something strapless, or at the very least, strappy. I’d have no problem with this requisite if it were July, but it’s the goddamn dead of winter and it’s colder than Jack Frost’s balls. Yes, even in LA. In fact, it’s worse in LA, because establishments here don’t believe in coat checks, which means you’re tying your parka around your waist all night, which kinda ruins the effect of the cutout midriff on the frock you just paid $189 for at Bebe.
No matter how hard you try, you just can’t pull off flats with sequins, so heels it must be. On a good night, I can hang for maybe two hours tops in these veritable torture devices. And on New Year’s, you gotta stick it out till at least 12:30, which means I’ve got a date with the podiatrist next week. Trust me, Cinderella’s shoe didn’t just fall off at the stroke of midnight. The bitch flung that damn thing far, far away, then ran home to nurse her newfound plantar fasciitis.
Because most Americans seem to think the point of New Year’s is to get as fucked up as Courtney Love on a Tuesday, there is always some a-hole who spills his drink down the back of your backless $189 Bebe dress, which will inevitably ooze down your buttcrack and saturate your thong so you’ll feel like you’ve pissed yourself all night. And then he’ll hit on you.
It’s midnight and you’ve kicked and elbowed your way through the crowd to casually perch yourself next to the hottest guy in the club. As the ball drops, you turn to him for a smooch and he’s tongue wrestling with the second hottest guy in the club. You turn to your other side to find what looks like Dick Clark’s corpse grinning at you with mustard-hued teeth.
The Designated Driver
Nobody wants this job, and for good reason. You are forced to pay an overinflated cover charge to watch your friends get stoopid all night, then play dodgeball with your car amid the drunk drivers in an effort to make it home alive. And with the police checkpoints on the road, you really can’t play the “I’ll stop drinking at midnight then sober up” game, because you’re likely to wind up not only blowing a >.08 BAC that evening, but also a 250-pound inmate named Raul.
Still, each December 31, I find myself weighing these six most excellent reasons to stay home against the one ridiculously flimsy reason to go out: to avoid feeling like a big fat loser sitting on my couch alone on New Year’s Eve.
Honest to Betsy, my dream New Year’s celebration is to have another loser sitting next to me on the couch drinking champagne in PJs and making fun of untalented pop stars on New Year’s Rockin’ Eve, then passing out at 12:05. Ahhh.
Alas, it looks like that’s not going to happen this year. Well, guess I’d better go to the mall to look for a dress. Maybe Bebe is having a sale.