No matter how 2018 has been, on New Year’s Eve, do what makes you truly and deeply happy.
I am, by all regular metrics, an incredibly boring person. And this is most obviously visible in the week between Christmas and New Year. I don’t say I’m boring to ask for pity, but it’s just a factual statement. And that’s okay. I don’t enjoy the crowds, loud noises and drunk people falling over me during this ‘festive’ week.
And I know that I am not the only one. There are many of us who would rather stay at home, wearing some comforting sweater and drinking a hot cuppa.
No matter how 2018 has been, on New Year’s Eve, do what makes you truly and deeply happy. We have far too little of that. Read a book. Buy someone a meal. Cook, for yourself and for those you love. Watch a movie that makes your heart feel full. Party, if that’s what cheers you up.
December is usually bustling with cheer, festivities, and an inordinate number of weddings. It’s an expensive month to survive, and a worse one to smile through. A lot of people actually enjoy the extraversion this time of the year demands, but I stand witness and representative to those who don’t. Personally, I need to recharge every time I meet a lot of people. This can be something as simple as spending the next day in bed –it’s important for me to make sure I keep some emotional reserves for myself. It’s difficult to do that when every day brings a new social obligation.
It’s also very, very difficult to soldier through if you’re going through a depressive phase, a bad time, or have generally faced a tough year – like most Indian women this year with the #MeToo movement. It feels incredibly disingenuous to put on a mask and smile when the world feels like it’s closing in on you. A lot of us, despite being ardent advocates of mental health awareness, don’t afford ourselves the same kindness in the face of “Oh come on, don’t be a bore”. The idea that silence and stillness can be a form of self-care is something we actively resist because of the connotations of aloneness – and the false correlations with loneliness.
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Usually, people will ask me once, maybe twice, and let it go. Over the years, I’ve become excellent at creating a fine balance between having a social life and being selectively asocial as and when I need to.
Unfortunately, it all comes tumbling down on New Year’s Eve.
The idea of an NYE party is to ‘bring in’ a new year together (why?) and to celebrate the one gone by (why!). On average, this involves a lot of alcohol, terrible decision making, and invariably one moment when you wonder: What am I doing here? The worst part is probably the fact that you can’t actually leave until the clock strikes 12, and that is way past my bedtime. The day after is spent nursing a terrible headache, a sour mouth, and promises of ‘never drinking again’. It’s a redundant, self-sabotaging activity and lies at the crux of everything I hate about obligatory partying.
There are ways to make this easier, of course. Start with the good old ‘my parents want me around!’ shtick. It’s hard to refute that one, however old you are. If that doesn’t work, try to work out a compromise. A small, cosy house party is usually easier to survive than a loud bash. Stick to one type of alcohol and limit yourself to three drinks – (relative) sobriety might make the rest of the world insufferable, but your body will thank you. Start preparing yourself for the bigger nights a few days in advance by giving yourself time to rest, conserve energy, and emotionally segregate the resources you need to survive. Keep a friend in the loop and anchor yourself to them, physically or over social media. Don’t disregard your own discomfort. It’s there for a reason.
Personally, I decided to stop forcing myself into situations like these a few years ago, and it was probably the best decision I ever made. The year before, I spent time with my parents and we got some cheap Chinese food. Last year, it was a fun date with someone rather cute. This year? I plan to stay in, watch Netflix, and probably meet my (hungover) friends for a drink on the first. I’ve allowed myself the space and time to gently adjust to the passing of another year – and you should too.
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We assume we party because we celebrate, but sometimes its just desperation to forget how scary and difficult passing of time can be. While a new year is an arbitrary measure of time, it represents the fact that change has a tangible measure to it. We, as a people, are exhausted of change. The feeling of being in a constant flux crystalises on 31 December, and we dance our panic off. That’s fine, that’s good, that’s wonderful…if that’s what you want to do.
But there are other ways too. Sit down, take a deep breath, and take stock of the year that was. 2018, especially, was a year far too full and whole to be swept aside. It demands a moment of quiet, and a longer one of introspection. You’re allowed to sit this one out.
The year that ended was merely a precursor to the kind of rebuilding, rethinking, and redoing the year that’s coming will get us. We need to save and hold close every moment of joy and wonder we can afford. That’s what makes for a kind New Year’s Eve.
I hope you have one.
The author is a poet.
Our festive season has been made joyous by little Ananya visiting us from Singapore with her parents, each waking moment keeping us enraptured by her mostly impeccable behaviour, speaking many more words than we can fully understand, the miracle of life and renewal unfolding before our eyes. It takes an entire household to bring up a child.