Much To My Delight

Much To My Delight

Thoughts on New Year’s Eve-Eve


I’ve always wanted to go to one of those really fancy New Year’s Eve parties. The ones where men with slicked back hair wear sharp tuxedos and women pour themselves into tight sequin dresses and bloody their lips with bright red lipstick. I’ve pictured myself in a huge ballroom with a live band on stage; huge floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch out across the length of Manhattan skyline, revealing the million tiny nightlights that show up for work every evening. It’s the kind of party where confetti falls like rain from big blankets hung across the ceiling and champagne bottles are popped open by perfectly capped teeth.

In this particular fantasy, a man who looks like 1987 Tom Selleck strides toward me, leans against a wall and asks, “So what do you think about this party?”

I smile– no teeth, all lip. “I love it. The music’s great. I would have given up some of this raw bar for some Rotel dip, but that’s just a personal preference. What about you?”

“I’ve seen better.” He’d say, leaning against a railing. “Or at least I thought I had, until just now.” He lifts up the corner of his mustache to reveal a smirk, a smirk that says “Hey, baby… you wanna get out of here?” and “The only thing hotter than Rotel dip is you.” Then he winks and nods before asking: “Are you here alone?”

“No, I’m here with my husband. He’s the skinny one with the bushy beard and long hair.” I point across the room, to the dessert section. “See him over there? He’s the one flirting with that pile of donuts dusted with glitter.”

“Huh, oh yeah.  Good looking guy. That’s a rookie ‘stache though.”

“Tell me about it. I can’t wait to see what it looks like after he nosedives into the powdered ones.”

“Nice meeting you, pretty lady.”

“Likewise. Enjoy your evening.”

Alas, nothing like that ever happens on New Year’s Eve. I haven’t been approached by a handsome stranger in public for centuries now.  The last ten years, we’ve mostly attended intimate affairs at our friends Aubrey and Mitchs’ house, where I inevitably end up falling asleep on the couch long by midnight. It’s sweet of them to continue inviting their narcoleptic friend to all their parties.

The worst NYE was 1998, when I attended a Matchbox 20 concert in the middle of a parking lot in Houston. I don’t even remember liking Matchbox 20 very much, but somehow I always ended up at their concerts because it was 1998. Anyway, December is still warm enough in Houston to have outdoor concerts, so a small group of us went to enjoy $11 draft beers and greasy tacos. At 11:45, my bladder (the ultimate party pooper) decided it could no longer participate in the events, so I excused myself to the powder room. I say “powder room” because it sounds a lot more delicate than “a big line of porta-potties.” The line was a million people deep and barely moving, but I had no choice but to wait in it. As I stood there, it became clear to me that not only would I not be getting kissed at midnight, but most likely I’d be squatting over a disgusting plastic hole, my pants down around my ankles, breathing in the veritable potpourri of smells one can only find in a modern-day outhouse.

At the stroke of midnight, I heard whoops of laughter, cries of hope and joy, screams of “Happy New Year!” echoing through the hollow walls of my porta-john. “Happy New Year”, I mumbled to myself. I worried that spending the stroke of midnight on New Year’s in a portable toilet was a harbinger of things to come.  That a moment like that would imbue the following months with oppressive obstacles, less-than-ideal circumstances, and frankly, shit.

And of course, that didn’t come to pass. I don’t remember anything particularly distressing happening in 1998 because I was in college then and protected by the magical forcefield of youth. If that were to happen this year? Why, the results could be disastrous.

So instead I’ll put on my flat shoes and a t-shirt of breathable cotton and Vin will tweak his facial hair with some beard wax. We’ll head over to Mitch and Aubrey’s house for some tasty snacks and a champagne toast. The gang will clink glasses and toot paper horns, and I’ll be curled in a ball on their mid-century-style sofa in the front room, sleeping my way into 2016, dreaming of Tom Selleck.




Jenn P.

30-something psychotherapist. Loves cooking, hosting parties, exploring new places. Texan by birth. New Yorker by choice. Likes to tell little stories. Pull up a chair; I'll tell you one.

  • Miriam
    This was beautiful. Your story perfectly captured the hype and disappointment surrounding New Year’s Eve: We want it to be the best party of the year, but inevitably, we are partied out at that point. Falling asleep long before midnight is the REAL New Year’s eve theme.
    • Jenn from much to my delight
      Haha! I wasn’t expecting the word beautiful to be attached to this post. Thanks Miriam! Yeah, I should really just host a slumber party one year where we do a fake countdown to 10pm, then go off in separate rooms and sleep comfortably till January. Hope you have a night to remember (or one that’s delightfully hype-free:).
  • De Elizabeth
    Hi there! I just found your blog and really love this post. I totally agree that there’s so much hype surrounding NYE and sometimes it’s better to just relax with the people that we love. I hope your New Year’s is great! <3