- November 20, 2024
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Two years ago, when The Ball dropped in Times Square, I was about three hours into watching a grown man play heated ping pong with a 12-year-old ringer.
“Another one?” the 12-year-old kept saying after every game. And Cody — “You sure you wanna lose again?” — was in no rush to leave the table.
I dunked another carrot stick into one of those puddles of goop meant to trick your mouth into thinking carrot sticks are serviceable party food, and I crunched down.
“What a tournament,” I said, poking at my phone, wondering when it would be socially acceptable to leave, slip into my Scrooge-style sleeping cap, close my eyes and act like 2012 never happened.
That was my New Year’s.
And really, that’s my every New Year’s.
But don’t think I’m some ping pong hater. That tournament was intense: the two- to four-hit volleys; the unending smack-talk; the raw stamina of those two competitors. Talk about fierce.
It wasn’t the game that got to me. It was the holiday.
With Christmas, there’s always parties and dinners and get-togethers weeks beforehand. By the time Christmas Eve comes, let’s face it, it’s enough already with fun. And hey, you want more, there’s always Christmas Day.
But New Year’s is all or nothing, so much pressure. Remember: This is the cap on your whole year, the icing. For all the marbles. This is when we try our best to shake off the past 12 months and delude ourselves into thinking next year will be different — the year we finally learn Spanish and start a vegetable garden and stop using paper towels in place of napkins.
Who knows: Maybe this will even be the year we stop thinking farts are funny. It’s doubtful, of course, but really, who knows? This could be our year!
With a party like this, anything’s possible. There’s even seven-layer Mexican dip!
(How they squeeze so many layers into just one dip, by the way, I’ll never understand. But I don’t let this anomaly of physics get to me. Seven days in a week, seven colors in a rainbow, seven deadly sins, 7Up: There’s obviously significance here, so I’m OK trusting the cosmos on this one.)
“Ball’s dropping in five!” Joanna said, coming out onto the patio, drink in hand, party hat on head, inexplicable look of genuine enthusiasm on face.
“Oh,” I said. “Can’t miss that.”
And by the time I negotiated my legs into a walking motion, people were already counting, more of that confounding optimism crackling on their tongues. And thousands of people crammed onto the streets of New York did the same. They counted and cheered and smiled: “10! … Nine! … Eight!”
But all I could kept thinking about was the traffic these New Yorkers would hit on their way home.
“What’re they crazy?” I said to Wes, as he scream-counted: “Seven — woo! Six! … Five!”
“They’re not getting home till 3 tonight, easy,” I elaborated. “You realize that?”
And I could see in the way he pretended I wasn’t there that he totally did.
So this year, I went an alternative route. No house party. No high expectations. No hope.
It was perfect.
The night was full of food and just a couple friends, and when The Ball dropped, I didn’t even count.
Why bother, I thought. I can change whenever I want to — not just on New Year’s.
And you know what? I think I will change. First thing’s first: I’ll start on that vegetable garden — but not right now, of course. It’s just that I’m a trifle busy at the moment, still giggling over that first fart reference.
