And A Happy New Yezzzzzzzzzzzzz
New Year’s. A time for laughter, wine, and song. A time to
watch watered-down bowl games and wonder why the heck anybody thought watching
Northern Illinois get mauled by Florida State was a good idea. A time to take
stock of all the ways you’ve disappointed yourself over the last year, resolve
to change all of your habits effective immediately, and then drink champagne
until one in the morning. A wonderful, festive – OK, I can’t fake it anymore.
New Year’s is my least favorite holiday.
Sure, I could give you rational reasons. I could say that I
dislike New Year’s because it steps all over the Christmas season, interrupting
the Twelve Days until Epiphany like a streaker running through a full
cathedral. I could talk about how obnoxious “Auld Lang Syne” is after the five
hundredth iteration. But honestly it comes down to one thing:
I am secretly an
It’s true. I am. My idea of the perfect holiday is to spend
the entire time in a rocking chair with a book – or a series of books – and maybe
some crossword puzzles for between chapters. I enjoy soup more than I really
should, and I honestly like the taste of prunes – have for years. Anything
involving World War II is automatically fascinating to me. I am inherently
suspicious of social media of any form (although, to my credit, I manage NOT to
believe everything sent to me in an email forward).
And, most importantly for the current discussion, I think 9
PM is a perfectly reasonable bedtime. Honestly, there are times when 8:30 sounds
even better, but I manage to keep going that extra half-hour on general
I mean, there are times when I stay up later. Sometimes it’s
just not up to me, I have something to do for work that requires more time, or
an errand to run, or some such. Other times I’m genuinely interested in staying
awake because of a movie, a book, an interesting conversation.
But for the most part, I like my early bedtime. And on New
Year’s Eve, when staying up WAY past my normal operating hours is almost an
obligation, my stubborn streak kicks in and I start heading for the bedding
even earlier, just to prove that YOU ARE NOT THE BOSS OF ME, JANUARY.
Thankfully, I’ve married a woman who likes to go to bed even
earlier than I do, a woman whose idea of a great way to spend New Year’s Eve
involves eating pork and sauerkraut and then taking a nap. For eight and a half
hours. So we back each other up in our octogenarian leanings, steadfastly
refuse to force ourselves to stay up to the ungodly hours demanded by this
particular holiday, and look forward to waking up early the next morning,
bright-eyed and not-hung-over and obnoxiously chipper because of it. We’re a
Now, if you’ll excuse me, Joanie and I are going to feed