As I mentioned in another entry not too long ago, I did not grow up in a household that endorsed or celebrated New Year’s. My mother, in fact, has always looked upon the holiday with a certain level of disdain. Unlike Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, secular New Year is not about self-reflection or improvement. It’s, and I quote, “an excuse to get riproiously drunk and ensure you start the next year entirely hungover.”
Needless to say I grew up in a stone-cold sober household, where alcohol was about as commonly consumed as pork chops were eaten. So when I got to college and suddenly discovered that New Year’s Eve celebrations were some of the most meticulously planned nights for inevitable inebriation, I was ill-prepared to participate in the raucous night time party.
And like a daughter with an umbilical cord relationship with her mother, I spent the subsequent four New Year’s Eves drinking lattes with my mom. This year I have resolved to venture beyond the confines of the womb, get dressed up in the best outfit the local consignment shop has to offer, and watch midnight fireworks over the park. If I am feeling particularly daring, I may even sip a 4 oz glass of champagne.
In the end, though, I hope my evening resembles the following–a tasteful (slightly tipsy) Kate Spade-inspired celebration: