Forced Fun

     Swaddled in a fleece blanket on my couch in Queens, I exhaled in relief as I witnessed the technicolor tragedy that was a rainy Times Square on New Year's Eve.

     I refrained from the drinking game of taking a sip every time Ryan Seacrest said, “But the rain can’t dampen the spirit of this crowd!” In part because I would be toasted after half an hour, and also because it’s hard to bring oneself to drink when the camera pans to sopping wet Japanese tourists looking like they collectively just lost their first born.

     The occasion of New Year’s Eve is less of a holiday and more of a midnight mass sponsored by Planet Fitness or Moët (depending on what party you’re at). The level of prescribed fun confined to such a strict timeline rivals few other rituals. There’s no other night specifically designated for you to wear a black minidress and overpay for taxis.

     As the ball began to drop, I realized that I had yet to open my bottle of Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider bought specifically for the occasion. In a frenzy I scurried to the fridge and ripped off the top wrapping.

     “18, 17, 16…”

     Other silverware clinked as I grabbed the bottle opener and quickly popped the top off.

     “13, 12, 11…"

     I poured an overly-fizzy champagne glass.

     “9, 8, 7…”

     Phew, I was going to make it.

     Ryan encouraged me to get my glass of champagne ready as I raised mine to the television in ceremonial compliance.

     “Happy New Year!”

     I took a sip of my sweet bubbly. I was so relieved that those poor people could finally go home. I was so grateful that I was already there. I wondered what other feelings I could evoke or conjure as I stared down the barrel of 2019.

     The camera panned to Christina Aguilera’s face with a piece of wet confetti stuck plainly to her forehead, and I felt nothing.