New Year's Eve is amateur night. Everyone uses it as an excuse to get drunk. I'm not much into New Year's Eve, since it's one of the more underwhelming holidays on the schedule.
I've never understood the notion of getting all gussied up, drinking myself into a stupor just to wait for midnight so I could count down from ten to one. Then you find a person to kiss for some reason.
When I lived in Spain I learned their traditions which, to my mind, were at least interesting. There, everyone crams into the Puerta del Sol in Madrid, the Times Square of Spain. When the countdown reaches twelve, everyone pops a grape into his mouth every second to represent the twelve months of the expiring year to symbolize the ouster of the old year and preparation for the new. If nothing else, it's different.
I prefer to spend the night alone with Karen and our boys quietly in our home. That, more than anything, makes me happy.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
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