On the last day of every year, I gather with friends to count backwards. I paint my face, dress in my shiniest gear, and warm up to the big countdown with rump-shaking, glass-raising, and hugging exercises. I need to be free, loose, and limber come midnight, when we huddle as a group to ceremoniously squeeze the old year out of each other. Before we can exorcize the old year though, we count.
The numbers “ten, nine, eight, seven,” are punctuated with much fist pumping, back slapping, and Rockette-imitating. “Six, five, four,” are screeched an octave––or even frequency––higher, our pupils dilated, champagne glasses at the ready. I make use of this window to locate the beneficiary of my number “one” kiss. Said beneficiary spends rest of countdown ensuring that he is not enjoying counting backwards so much that he is laughing at “one”––and I am kissing teeth. He knows only too well to fear the New Year’s “firsts”—and their implications for the rest of the year.
“Three, two, one” is spent looking up. I am suddenly fearful that the glowing lunar ball above us might drop—if only to punish us for shunning the mass “big crystal ball but no public toilets” ritual in Times Square. I send up a quick request for an extension—just like I do every time I’m on a plane—and then follow it up with an “I owe you.”
Our ball stays put and we cross from one year to another with much chest beating, lip smacking, and fire cracking. We scare the old year’s demons away by blowing whistles, cheering at horn-honkers, yelling at the sky, and then yelling back at no-fun neighbors.
Then, all of a sudden, it’s January.
The party is over.
The work of a whole new year must begin. The diets, the goals, the plans, the … oh, why did we declare them out loud?
It’s time for bed. We’re too old to be out this late. The party disperses.
Everyone returns to their counting-forward ways. Everyone but me: I count backwards all the time.
