My blog site asks a daily question on a wide variety of subjects, which can be answered and shared on the site or simply used to encourage individual introspection (my personal choice). And as the clock struck midnight today, a new question was revealed: “What makes you feel nostalgic?”

This being New Year’s Eve day, that query could not have been more timely. As the world prepares to sing about Auld Lang Syne (“times long past”) in a few hours, my thoughts turn back to a lifetime of New Year’s Eves . . . some great, some not so great, and a few utterly disastrous.

As a child in the late 1940s and early ‘50s, of course, it was all about being allowed to stay up until midnight. There were always a lot of adults around — mostly family, and often a few of their friends — and while they chatted among themselves, we kids dug into the food and tried to sneak sips of their cocktails when no one was looking. Then as the clock struck twelve, we all cheered and set off our noisemakers, everyone kissed everyone else, and we were hustled off to bed. It was great fun.

Of course, that’s only satisfying for a few years. Times change, and children grow up. From around the age of 16, if you didn’t have a date for the New Year, you were a loser. So you did the only thing you could do: you lied to your friends, telling them you had a big family party to attend, or the 24-hour flu, or a great-grandparent had died. Anything to save face.

But in retrospect, those dateless years were actually not as bad as some of the disastrous actual dates I recall. Let’s see now . . .

There was the year when my date was someone new, and it turned out we weren’t really compatible. We had gone to a big party, and I hate big parties, so I wasn’t having a great time. At midnight, I looked around and he was across the room, planting one on someone else’s girlfriend. I later thought about trying to get my money back for the dress I had bought for the occasion, but my asshole date had gotten drunk and spilled a drink on it. I drove myself home as he snoozed in the passenger seat of his car; I assumed he made it home somehow, because the car was gone in the morning and I didn’t hear any reports of fatalities.

Another year, another big party, but this time with a steady boyfriend (that’s what they were called back then). I don’t remember what triggered it, but there was an argument followed by a breakup. I was home by 12:30, beginning the year with a good cry.

And then there was the year I finally had a date for New Year’s Eve with my latest crush (yes, that’s a real word). I had the new dress, the coordinating accessories, the hairdo and makeup . . . the complete package. The snow started in the late morning. It snowed, and snowed, piling up faster than the plows could handle it in total white-out blizzard conditions. Everything was cancelled, and my would-have-been date and I spent the hours leading up to midnight talking on the phone. And I have to tell you . . . blowing kisses over the phone is no substitute for the real thing.

But eventually those dating years were (mercifully) behind me, and I was married with two children. New Year’s Eve became a time for quiet celebrations with a few friends at someone’s home, good food and drink, lively conversation, and a designated driver for each car because we all had families to consider.

Even after the kids were grown, those quiet evenings continued to be my favorite way to celebrate, not only on New Year’s Eve, but on any occasion. No crowds of strangers, no obnoxious drunks, no ear-splitting noise . . . and no need to pretend to be having fun, because those get-togethers with good friends really are the most fun.

Maybe it’s all part of getting older and tuckered out . . . or maybe just smarter. But I don’t miss the big parties, the spilled drinks on expensive new dresses, the breakups, or the hangovers. So tonight I’ll toast the New Year with some well-chilled bubbly as I watch the Times Square ball drop on TV, snuggled into my favorite chair in my robe and slippers.

And as for that New Year’s kiss . . . well, there’s always this guy:

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
12/31/25