A New Year’s Eve Tradition

I think everyone has a complicated relationship with what to do for the new year.

Expectations are high, dresses are usually cut low, and we’re forced to look at our lives and make resolutions about how this year is going be different. What went right this year, what didn’t? How do I want to spend the first moments of this new me? Will I make choices that get me where I want to be? Who will I be this year?

For me New Year’s Eve has always been important; I like to be able to look around at the place I’m in and the people I’m with and feel deeply, even if it just for a moment. Hopefully I feel peace, hope, gratitude, strength, love, but it has also been fear, pity, nostalgia, loneliness, regret, morality. I believe that the ways I spend that night will somehow affect my year to come, that out of all the nights in a year, it is the one that should be spent with magic in mind. I like to think that the veil between our daily lives and the divine is somehow thinner on New Year’s Eve, that our chances of seeing the beauty and power and grace of the world are somehow greater, that this annual opportunity to more easily connect with who we are and who we want to isn’t to be missed.

So with all that pressure, I really struggled deciding what I wanted to do for New Year’s Eve this year. For the last 15 years I’ve pretty much always done the same thing with the same people. My preschool friends had parents who bonded with mine, and for the last 25 years this parent/child group has remained close. As me and my friends graduated elementary school, middle school, high school, college, our parents stayed as much in touch as we did, more so since they still live in the same city and all of us have scattered as we’ve aged. As with any relationship lasting decades, we’ve all had our ups and downs with each other, but ultimately these friends have remained people I both seek out on my own volition and happily chat with at parties thrown by our parents.

One of these such parties has become an annual New Year’s Eve tradition. Along with our parents and any other friends we’d like to bring, at 9pm we hike about 45 minutes up a snowy mountain to gather around a bonfire we make, sipping slushy frozen champagne and Fireball, shooting off fireworks illegally purchased in Wyoming, and laughing together under the smokey stars. We sled down to the host’s house for a breakfast potluck at midnight, cheering in the New Year exhausted, buzzed, and lucky.

I love this tradition for all the feelings it creates, finishing the hike makes me proud, looking at the stars makes me grateful, seeing my family and friends makes me happy, sledding makes me excited, and the beauty makes me full. I know I’m so lucky to be part of it. But this year my parents decided not to come.

They got invited to dinner party with some other friends they hadn’t seen much this year, and my mother has never been a huge fan of the difficult hike, so I couldn’t blame them for taking a year off. Many of my usual friends also wouldn’t be there this year, also understandable since they live far away and our vacation days are limited. But the most significant change this year was that of my friends who would be there, all had plans to bring a significant other.

I’m used to being single on New Year’s Eve, but I’m also used to having at least one close single friend there as well. When the other’s kiss at midnight I’m never fully alone standing next to the others, and seconds later we all just become one group again. But with no loving parents to fall back to and my consistently single friend bringing a guest for the first time, I knew that this year would be different, and I was reluctant to trust myself in that setting alone.

I asked around to see what other people do for New Year’s Eve, to see if the changing of dates was as consequential for them as it was for me. Most of my late 20s friends said they planned to stay in and watch the ball drop on tv with their significant other or a few close friends, a few more planned to brave a crowd to feel part of something greater than themselves, and a few others planned to seek a stranger or a new love to ring in 2018 with a kiss. Nothing sounded better then my tradition, and I knew that even if my loneliness got the best of me, being outside and seeing the stars for at least a moment would be worth it. So I went.

For the first time ever I packed everything myself- found my sled in the attic, gathered firewood to carry up in a back pack, made some potatoes for the potluck, drove myself to the house, walked in alone. The pre party was fine, I talked with my friends and my parent’s friends, making excuses for the lack of my parents and assuring everyone that this was the best party in the area. I bonded with the new significant others, glad to see my friends happy and proud to share such a fun tradition with new people. But with the hike came a bit of struggle.

We’ve had record low snow this year, so the trail up was mostly packed ice and I wasn’t prepared with metal spikes attached to my boots like most of the friends. I also was carrying a too full backpack of wood for the first time ever, naively trying to make up for the fact that my dad wasn’t there to help with the load. And I also probably had one drink too many at the house before, unsuccessfully attempting to make the steep climb ahead more tolerable. By the middle of the hike I was clearly struggling. For every step I took I had to stomp my foot into the snow and use the sled I carried as a walking stick for a chance at not slipping, and even then I often slipped. It was slow and exhausting.

I was embarrassed to have so many people pass me, and couldn’t stand the feeling of having people behind me waiting, so I told any of the people who came up on me to go on and I’d catch up. Many were kind and caring, or funny and drunk, but they all had their people to do the hike with and I didn’t want to ruin the moment for them with my slow going. Pretty soon I was alone. I was angry and disappointed in myself, bummed that I couldn’t keep up and I hadn’t properly prepared my shoes, my body, my expectations. I trudged along knowing I’d get there eventually, but dreading the pity of so many people when I arrived alone so much later.

I was right, and a few minutes before I got to the top a group of my parents friends came in sight as they walked back down to look for me. If I wasn’t already the obviously alone one of the group, I definitely was now and I couldn’t look at them as I passed and told them I was fine, just slow. I could hear the pity in their voices, knowing that now they felt guilty for not looking out for me like my mother had probably made them promise to, that they all wondered why I didn’t have a boyfriend, or even a friend, that would have been my go to person that night.

At the fire it was fine, I chatted with a bunch of different people and indulged my drunk friends who were rightfully really into their significant others. And sledding down was fun as always, and many people made a very obvious effort to include me. Making sure Laurel had a buddy was frequently talked about before the sled down and I cringed every time, feeling much like that scene in the old movies when a single rider gets on a ferris wheel and the operator yells “single!, single!” in a mortifying attempt to fill the seat. Guys, it is up to us to make sure we don’t leave Laurel alone!!!

I was mostly fine until I got in my car to drive myself home alone. I let tears fall for the first time in months as I drove, feeling sorry for myself in the absurd way that only someone who knows they’re being ridiculous can. I’m so lucky, so many things are so great, I shouldn’t let something so minor get to me. But it did. It was 1:30am when I got home to my parent’s place, they were sound asleep home from their party, and I knew that if I went to bed this sad memory would be my 2017 New Year’s Eve ending forever. So I snuck outside to the hottub and stepped in naked, soaking alone under the almost full moon.

I cried a bit more, knowing full well that I was mostly just embarrassed of the way other people had thought of me that night, not because I actually pitied myself. But I also felt the magic that knew I still needed to find on New Year’s Eve. The view was incredible, the full moon lit up the yard and the mountains and the stars brilliantly, and the steam rising from the water gave weight to the beauty of the scene. My nakedness made me feel powerful, and it felt good to know that I’d actively chosen to do something to improve my less than ideal night.

I soaked and thought about all the changes that are coming this year. My brother spent New Year’s Eve with his first serious girlfriend, which accounted for no small part in my emotional turmoil that night. He’s been my best friend for the last few years, and for the last few months he’s been working two jobs and spending much of his time with another girl. I’m so happy for him, but it is definitely a new feeling having to share him. The small company I pour my life into is days away from being sold, and though they’ve assured me they want to keep me around, how that will look is largely a mystery. This year my friends and I are turning 30- they’re having babies, buying homes, traveling the world. My life is busy too, in the next few weeks alone I’m going to start playing rec basketball, spend a weekend in Vancouver, host Daisy(!), attend Sundance, see a musical, and possibly even fly to Korea to support my friends in the winter olympics (what!).

It has been hard to keep my balance with all the change lately, and as annoyed as I am at my inability to successfully attend my favorite New Year’s Eve tradition alone, I also know it is okay to feel a little overwhelmed. Sometimes life forces us to change in ways we haven’t been able to on our own and maybe in spite of everything that had gone wrong and right this year, I found myself a new tradition- a naked New Year’s Eve hottub at 2am.