As usual, we’re running late. I pop fresh batteries into my digital camera and toss it in my purse. My husband and I wait for a stranger to pick us up by our mailbox. The porch light has been broken for months but we’re too lazy to fix it. We amble around in the darkness and check our phones. It’s unseasonably warm even for Georgia. Our Uber driver nearly wrecks as we skid onto the highway, and we cradle cases of beer and spiked seltzer to our chests like they’re airbags. Terrible pop music from 2015 blares through the car’s speakers. It feels too awkward to talk while pretending another person isn’t in the car with us. Instead, we occasionally text one another.
God this music is ass
fr
I text my friend to see who’s already arrived at the party. Just a few people, mostly men. No rush.
Our mutual friends, a darling couple W + C, have taken on the behemoth task of throwing a NYE party. Three years ago they did the same, but their generosity backfired. Or so I’ve been told. We weren’t able to attend but the lore has loomed for years. Bathroom tubs and toilets sprinkled with vomit. Randos overstaying their welcome long after the party ended. I am surprised but grateful that they have opted to throw another.
For this special occasion they even brought W’s famous hunch punch recipe out of retirement. Once at a NYE party freshly post-college, I got violently ill off of several cups of punch (maybe 5, possibly 6) served from an orange and white cooler. My red solo cup didn’t leave my side. I recall finishing the night with a shot of bottom-shelf whisky and chasing it with a handful of Doritos. We slept on our friend’s messy floor. After waking to muffled gunshots down the road, I begged my boyfriend (now husband) to drive us home. At a red light I resisted the urge to hurl open the car door and throw up on the concrete.
“Please, don’t,” he cautioned. A cop was also at the light. I tackled my nausea until we crossed the threshold of our single-room apartment. I threw up nearly every hour that night. I haven’t drank that heavily since.
After we greet a few pals and the ladies compliment each other’s outfits, I go to pour myself a drink. I glance around anticipating the orange cooler. Instead I find a crystal punch bowl and matching ladle. A bottle of Everclear peeks out behind a row of spirits and gluten-free snacks. There’s a silver tier of cream puffs and charcuterie for grazing, and I dig my grubby hands into the spread without hesitation. I pour two 8 ounce cups, one for me and one for my other friend. We sip and wince. The punch is both stronger and sweeter than I remember. I can’t fathom drinking more than a single serving.
The night unfurls tamely, a cat stretching after a tiring day. My husband and I split off into our respective social circles. We fall into easygoing conversations with mostly familiar faces. Come midnight we kiss. Somehow the tv lags and there are two countdowns. I push through the crowd and give one of my single friends a smooch on the cheek. In the process I accidentally spill champagne on a friend of a friend’s wife’s dress sleeve. Oops. Party foul. Around 2:00 AM, we call another Uber and head home.
I greet our cats as I shed my pink fuzzy coat and heels. In the bathroom mirror I scan my face for signs of aging. My hands move mechanically, removing layers of glitter and mascara, layering on milky serums and lotion. I dust off the soles of my feet and crawl into bed. I have a stressful dream that I forget come morning.
We sleep in, our nearly 30-year-old bodies now demanding rest unlike our early 20-year-old selves. There’s no hangover, no time spent hunched over the toilet bowl. It’s the first day of 2026, and me and my husband sit on our broken couch drinking coffee. We watch our cats as they bathe in slivers of sunlight.
