I am a self professed New Year’s Eve Curmudgeon.
Back in college my roommates and I holed up over New Year’s Eve at a friend’s swanky condo on a golf course somewhere and drank white zinfandel until the living room swirled in shades of Komen pink. We swilled and gabbed and eventually got to talking about very erudite mathy topics. We figured out how old we’d be in 1999 and pinky swore vowed to meet up on the steps of the iconic Rotunda to ring in the new millenium together. In our extreme mathiness, we calculated that we’d be 32 in the year 2000. 32! Egads! We swooned and squealed, fingers covering our lips and eyes aghast. We couldn’t fathom being so old.
Yeah, that was over 10 years ago. And I’ve totally lost track of the girls who were with me that night.
I still feel like a school girl and find myself wondering who’s looking back at me in the mirror sometimes. I get the same sensation when I sit in those little orange plastic chairs with cubbies built in underneath at my sons’ parent-teacher conferences. Mac Daddy and I always exchange giggly looks that say “How the f*&# did we get to be such grown ups and when do the authorities find out we’re total phonies?!”
It seems that New Year’s Eve is a holiday for the young, not necessarily the young at heart. Is New Year’s Eve even a real holiday? I never was a big fan. For starters, I hate the artificial hoopla. I also hate the outfits. Cheesy, Classy’s Cousin Eddie of the fashion world, reigns supreme on New Year’s Eve. I can’t stand the pressure to party, the drunk drivers, the drunks in general, the hangover, and let’s not forget, the cheap champagne. I saw a girl in checking out in front of me at Harris Teeter this afternoon with an entire cart full of Diet Pepsi and Andre. I shuddered and refrained from using it as a teachable moment to highlight for Bird and Deal the importance of imbibing quality spirits. I figured the lesson would be premature at their age. I’ll stick to the lesson on the importance of organic milk instead.
There was one New Year’s Eve that was rich in memory making. It just so happened to be December 31, 1999…months before I turned 32! Mac Daddy and I went to our friend Shan’s cabin nestled somewhere between Lake Wobegone and Your Oasis on Flame Lake. There were about 10 of our good friends whooping it up over grilled rib eyes, baked potatoes, cookies galore, and our fair share of holiday spirits. Shan, being the practical, and somewhat paranoid, (love you, Shan!) among us, filled the tub with water and emptied out the ATM to ensure we had money. Remember the hoopla of Y2K? Anyway, at Shan’s cabin we all played a mean game of Family Feud, taking turns being Richard Dawson and simply laughed with wild abandon, bemused by friends who loved us unconditionally. If you looked up conviviality in the dictionary that night you would have seen a picture of us.
Here it is more than 10 years later, and we’re still friends with those fine folks.
While we aren’t getting any younger, we are indeed getting older, which sure beats the alternative. I’m no wallflower, no shrinking violet, but as I creep closer and closer to a time where my hands will defy my age, I suppose I am teetering on the edge of an elderflower. And so I bring you 2010’s final 5:00 Fridays. I toast you all on this eve of 2011 (the year I’ll turn 43…Bring it!).
Elderflower Eve
1 ounce Elderflower drink concentrate (I got a cute little bottle at Ikea.)
1 1/2 ounces Champagne
1 ounce Ginger vodka
Chill a champagne flute. Add elderflower concentrate and vodka. Stir ever so gently. Pop in a lime twist, a few frozen berries, or a mint leaf to spruce it up. Hold your pinky out in an ever so proper manner, and sip.
I wish you love and laughter in 2011, for that’s all the fuel we need. Cheers!
Oh, and Happy New Year.
Happy new year to you!