I’m an accountant.
That means most of my adult life (basically ever since 2002) I have spent my Decembers in a haze.
A haze where I am drowning in mountains of paperwork and the world outside of the finance department is quite literally a parallel universe.
There was never a concept of New Year’s Eve Celebrations for me. I got a little respite when I joined a Fintech but it was still like a puppy or a kitten barely opening their eyes to the bright lights of the world.
Don’t get me wrong. I have STILL made it to plenty of New Years Celebrations. Either slipping in way past everyone was sloshed to notice I was late except a loud cheer when I entered the room or promising to work that I will work all nighters the following week. Which I even did.
The commitment to the cause of partying was real.
However, when I got pregnant and quit my job, the first thing I did was fly off to England in the first week of December! This is IT.
I have NEVER traveled without remotely working. I have never ever been in England through the winters especially around Christmas times. I have never stayed out of office for more than 3 weeks. Okay wait. There was that back ailment when I was 19 that kept me in bed for three months but really guys, focus!
Here I was. No year end bracing me and all life form around me. A GORGEOUSLY lit up London
A Bain-Marie bubbling inside me so, confident to brave the British winters and a vacation that need not end in 3 weeks.
I ran around London and Durham, 5 months pregnant, plonking myself down on the pavement the minute I felt tired, getting priority seats on public transport at a single flash of my “Baby On Board” pin badge …
And hearing my husband softly snore as I saw the fireworks on TV in the hotel room. On mute.
And peeking out the window to see the reddened skies. Like a ghareeb.
In London. Minutes away. From all the partying possible. In bed. In a room so quiet I could hear the faint cheering from across the darn town!
In all honesty. We HAD stepped out. To celebrate. Just making sure we were back at the hotel latest by 9:30pm.
How’s that for adulting? No seriously. How sad does this sound?
We sure don’t LOOK sad. Let’s face it. It is difficult to be sad when you have a baby bubbling inside you and you’re in the city that is KNOWN for its Christmas lights. Christmas Markets.
But we are missing the point here.
My ghareeb life with New Year Evenings thrown at me like Charity deserved more in London on New Years Eve.
Which is when this suddenly dawned on me.
It was actually quite comfortable watching it all on TV on mute. Instead of being in the crowd with my pregnant belly, in the cold that not even quintuplets could’ve kept me warm in. Imagine the discomfort.
Yes my dear friends. This is what adulting looks like. This is how warm socks and husband’s over size sweaters replace tank tops, sleeveless saris and barely there clothes in the midst of foggy winters.
We say no to weddings and stay home over New Years Eve.
My ability to actually party over New Years begun and ended rather abruptly within the month of December 2016.
This was a tragedy. You can cry now.
Just that. Don’t.
I find solace in partying my heart out at Christmas and then cozying up over New Years. It serves both my need to feed (crowds and I mean CROWDS) and my JOMO (Joy of Missing Out) just that it really doesn’t feel like I’m missing out on anything. More like I’m closer to all that matters so much more.
My party is my husband and child. While they annoy me till I scream and they topple over laughing because they won.
Okay who am I kidding.
It’s SLEEP! And my new Razaaee (Quilt).
That’s the real hero here. Uff. Seriously. Nothing else matters.
This is my party.
