My dream New Year’s Eve used to be the whole Times Square cluster-something celebration with confetti, happy people, and that midnight make-out session. Then I moved to New York and grew warier of crowds and drunk people. Over the years, with many different experiences in those last ten seconds of the year, my ideal December 31 is just watching Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper (since Dick Clark is truly gone) and letting revelers revel on the streets.
The thing is…I don’t usually wind up doing this. Last night, lovely friends invited us out to a club. Our pre-work involved a new dress with sequins for me and a tuxedo for my guy. The place was near Times Square, which this year had a friendlier vibe–though maybe it’s because we avoided the 1,2,3 subway lines and didn’t actually touch Times Square. We danced (only to “Blurred Lines” since you have to dance to this, even in really high heels), ate, conversed and wandered around. I learned from two younger ladies in our group that my watching The O.C. is not cool, so I won’t watch the last season. We disagreed on whether Kanye and Kim will last. My husband had taught himself to tie a bowtie, but then his buttons were inverted the entire night.
I was happy to be where I was since I was with my squeeze at midnight. Then, we scurried home, dodging people before diving into a subdued F train.
And now, onto the resolutions. Right?