The Story of the Morning After

Post 574 of 930

This exerpt has been taken off the author’s blog page –

Althea Delmas Kaushal

Two thousand and sixteen, really?

I am a loooong way from sixteen and a heck of a lot closer to the two thousand 🙂

It always amazes me that people usually land up welcoming a New Year with one hundredth of the vim and vigour they send the previous one out with.

An average lead up to the New Year is not the year itself but the party that brings it in [alarmingly similar to a marriage being all about the big day and not the saga that will be the rest of your life]. Am I jaded? Probably. Bitter? Not a chance. Tired? Yup, that’s it. I’m exhausted by the whole circus – the thought of it has me scrambling for cover, inventing debilitating diseases that prevent me from socializing, running for cover.

December the thirty-first. The big three one slips into a tried and tested pattern like an old familiar, never varying, easily navigable, done to death.

You surround yourself with people you know little to nothing about.

Stuff yourself into a dress that requires a minimum of 2 pairs of Spanx to even come together, cripple your insteps and bunion your toes with stilettoes that are giraffesque and grotesque at the same time.

Tease and super glue your tresses to defy gravity and stay upright in direct variance with your neckline, which is nowhere close to your neck and you’ll spend the rest of the night pulling up the straps.

Painted your face with material that successfully obliterates all sign of your original features, colour, and in some cases; species.

Smile at people I dislike, fawn over people that I want to know, turn a viscous green at a competitive clone and totter around the bar, marking time with the rest of them.

Marking time to what?

Marking time to that elusive 00:00 hours, where we throw ourselves around hugging and air-kissing everything in sight, never losing track of the people who have made their way to kiss you and the ones who haven’t, cheering big glasses of cheap bubbly in the air, knowing all the time that that champagne is going to cost you in spades the next morning. But, social animals that we are, we venerate at the altar of image management. Effervescent in public, kneeling at the porcelain throne in private.

And now comes the actual New Year. She enters spent, incoherent, crippled and antisocial and that’s just the morning. As this wonderful single number day progresses, you slather yourself in Vicks Vaporub, poison yourself with painkillers, which you’ve chucked down in fistfuls down your fuzzy throat, you’ve turned your room into a cold dark cave as you revert to the foetal position and prepare to die. Outside the closed door that is now your sarcophagus, is bright sunshine, morning sounds as people and animals navigate their day, your children [freshly banned from jumping into bed with you for a quick snuggle] and joy. And that, my friend is your New Year, and mine.

It was time to take stock. And took stock I did.

So, here’s what I do with my New Year [and have done for almost the last decade]. I welcome it either tucked up in bed with my angels, making plans for the next year or bring it in in the company of few really good friends, friends who I can sit barefoot with, fall asleep on, and toast the end of a year with. And all this, surrounded by our children – giddy on Christmas sweets, bouncing off the walls and happy, happy, happy.

Quieter? Yes. Boring? Probably. Spirited? Pickled, actually. Happy? Oh God, yes!