New Year’s Eve Is A Trap

A retired Lit Professor into BDSM told me something that finally made the holidays make sense.

Every year, I think this is the New Year’s Eve that’ll change my life.

The directions to the fancy party are still warm from the printer.

I dress carefully. Brand new outfit. Verrrry Instagrammable. But—

I’ll never wear it again. It’ll only ever remind me of the crying. It starts at exactly 12:00:01 a.m., those sobs under fireworks.

I’ve done this at many NYE parties.

I’ve cried in guest bathrooms. In one of those pantries with a frosted glass door that says “PANTRY.”

After, I’d say never again. But then, again. Again.

I was young.

Then I learned—by accident—one way to stop spiraling over the holidays.

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My worst New Year’s Eves were in my twenties. I once met friends at a party in New Orleans where everyone immediately scattered to better parties or disappeared into bedrooms. I wasn't out yet. Not a party kid. A former Altar Boy of the Year, for God’s sake.

I left.

I walked alone down a residential street in the freezing cold. Through windows, I could see other people having lovely nights. I only knew it was midnight because fireworks went off overhead, looking at them through teary eyes.

Then, a big night where I didn’t cry.

A favorite question of mine to ask at parties is, “What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?”

Someone will ask me, “How about this weather?” and I’ll ask them, “Do you love your father?”

That’s how I ended up in conversation with a retired literature professor who was spending his golden years exploring BDSM.

At some point, I asked him the meaning of life. Typical.

He didn’t pause.

“Happiness,” he said, “is about managing expectations.”

Of course it was him. Of course it was someone fluent in sadism and masochism who understood holidays.

I wept less after I adjusted my NYE expectations. See friends? Reasonable. Bed by 9pm? Achievable. Change my whole life? Crying. In a taxi. In an inoperable van in the woods in Louisiana (only once).

It’s different now. Any tears that might come are happy. One year, I went on a midnight hike with two close friends. Another, Steven and I went to Paris and, exhausted by a day of sightseeing in the freezing cold, shared a box of chocolates and bottle of champagne and went to bed early. Another, we threw our own party where I could’ve cried in my own bathroom for a change, but I didn’t need to.

Why the years of chasing overnight change? Maybe to face change head-on, defang it since it’s inevitable.

But change doesn’t need a Dick Clark countdown. It doesn’t care what I’m wearing. It comes, sometimes with heart break and sometimes with Prosecco. I try to prepare all year with mindfulness practices, therapy, and making art—maybe that’s a book or a webseries or a Substack, but often it’s a walk or working in the yard or taking photos of Raindrop and Shirley.

I never needed to adjust my life, just my expectations.

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LOOK ME IN THE EYES

Here’s more about the hellscape that is NYE, what I couldn’t fit in the post, direct from me to you.

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NEXT TIME

Ever needed to be seen so badly that you used the movie The Bodyguard to stage a coup in your church youth group?

Never mess with a gay kid who’s dramatic, lonely, and loves Whitney Houston.

How I learned being a leader isn’t the same as being loved.

That’s next week’s Byrontology.

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