Flowing bottles of champagne, disco tunes in a club, the kiss at midnight, mingling with relatives whilst nibbling on canapés, hearty renditions of Auld Lang Syne, wrapping-up warm to watch some fireworks, the 10-second countdown: we all have our conceptions of the new year.
It’s the chance to wrap up the festive season in style whilst marking the start of another calendar year, with celebrations talking place all over the world.
Personally I’ve never understood all the fuss. The idea of standing outside in the freezing cold to watch a mediocre fireworks display or cramming into a noisy, sweaty club with a bunch of strangers, shouting along to a glorified countdown to simply mark the start of another day baffles me.
Forcing myself to stay awake to watch the London’s New Year’s Eve fireworks on the TV has always felt rather anti-climactic and depressing. I usually end up staring at my Christmas tree, the harsh chimes of Big Ben reminding me that the cosy December celebrations will soon be a distant memory.
In fact, the words ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR!’ make my skin crawl, eyes roll and heart palpitate simultaneously.
I don’t know how many people are able to greet the new year with such positivity. To me January signals the start of blisteringly freezing and miserable weather, endless reminders to be a ‘new you’ and the start of the monotonous work-life grind we feel obliged to commit to.
And if I see another fitness, gym or weight loss advert I am going to scream into the abyss.
That’s why, rather than marking ‘the new year’, I want to mark ‘a year’.
Rather than buying into the sickeningly manipulating mindset that I need to change just because the number one has been added onto 2024, I just want to carry on living, being proud of being able get through one day at a time.
So there will be no ‘new me’ and no resolutions.
Instead of cheering in 2025, you will find me finishing the pack of mince pies and the left over cheeseboard.
Happy New Year!
