New Year’s Eve

I’ve just trawled through the MidLifeBloggers archives in search of New Year’s Eve posts from years past.  There are none.

Why not? I’m not sure.  Perhaps I’m ambivalent about New Year’s Eve, as I am about all those holidays that demand some public display of something.  My life has rarely lent itself to the traditional celebration, at least as the rest of the world seems to see it.  Even the years that I started off on the right foot, somehow I got tripped and fell off Whoopee-Celebration boat.  

STOP.  Right.  There.  Those italicized sentences above?  That’s me doing that thing I do, where I portray myself as a sad sack clown.  I laugh, you laugh, and we all walk away entertained.

Except–it’s not particularly true.  My New Year’s Eves certainly don’t match those constructed by directors of champagne commercials, but they have evolved over time to suit me.  I do or don’t buy something(s) special to eat and drink.  I do or don’t watch TV or a movie.  I do or don’t stay up till midnight.  I am or am not alone.

Moreover, I am or am not one of thousands, nay millions who spends December 31st in a similar fashion. So why do I roll so freely into the sad clown bit?  It’s easy.  It’s familiar.  Ease + familiarity = comfort.

But if you believe, as I do, that the stories we tell about ourselves create our reality, then I’m not doing myself a service if I persist in this story. Not only that, it’s a helluva way to start the New Year.


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