I've never enjoyed New Year's Eve. I've had some memorable moments, like the year I celebrated with a raucous party in Maine and dove into the ocean on New Year's Day. Or the many years we hosted friends for board games, chili and fresh baked bread from noon until midnight. Those were good years.
But I hate that we're celebrating the passage of time. Time isn't real. The new year isn't really a new beginning for anything, merely a continuation of all the days before it.
When we celebrate New Year's Eve, what I hear is, "Congratulations! You are one year closer to death!"
Birthdays are not the same. A birthday gives us one day a year to celebrate each person. I celebrate your life, you celebrate mine, and thank you very much.
Why does the globe celebrate the new year? And why is it more significant than true beginnings: the solstice, an equinox, the first snow?
I'll go along with it, but I won't pretend to enjoy it. I will, however, enjoy my eggnog. From scratch, of course.
I blog rarely, because I'm writing books. When I do blog, I focus on writing, friendship, family, and books. Because my family's best nicknames are private, I use their birth years for shorthand: