How to Ruin Your NYE in Seven Easy Steps (and my NYE epiphany)


Step 1: Find the cutest little furry boots to wear on NYE. Traipse around in them. Debate which cocktail would be best ro drink while wearing your cute new boots. Decide to drink mimosas made with champagne, orange juice and Grand Marnier (called the “Sultan’s Mimosa”). Sip. Admire cute new boots. Repeat. Drink another. Repeat for 2 more rounds.

Step 2: Wait a really long time to eat dinner, say, reservations at 8:50 pm in a very chi-chi French restaurant? Then wait some more until they seat you. Just in case you were like, REALLY hungry.

Step 3: Order (unknowingly) the greasiest item on the menu: braised beef short ribs. Notice the inch-thick strip of oozing fat on the meat, scrape off and eat most of the dish anyway, out of sheer hunger. Feel the strange bubble of horror growing in your stomach. Ignore it. Sample some of your boyfriend’s creamy lobster bisque. Wash that down with creme brulee. Lactose intolerance be damned!!

Step 4: Feeling kinda funny inside? That’s ok! Head to the nearest dance party in your cute furry new boots and gyrate as much as possible, churning your stomach’s contents into a high-velocity tilt-a-whirl. Still feeling funny? Put your big girl panties on, and walk it off. You’ll be fine.

Step 5: Until you puke in a public restroom. And get sick on your shirt. Barely miss hitting your new furry boots with the upended contents of your stomach. Maintain a tiny portion of your dignity by turn the shirt around backwards.

Step 6: Finally acquiesce to the BBE, who is insisting on taking you home. Limp through the parking lots in your new furry boots until they hurt so much that you – GASP! – take them off in the parking lot, walking to the car in your socks while the BBE carries your new furry boots. Watch the fireworks from your car while being driven home, huddled under the BBE’s coat, shivering in shame and sickness.

Step 7: Top off the night and ring in the new year! Make it home just in time for splashdown #2 (which as least happens in the comfort and privacy of your own bathroom) Finish the night in your pajamas with a trashcan by the bed in case of another incident, being handfed small bits of raisin toast by the BBE as you whimper quietly, vowing NEVER to eat short ribs or have the Sultan’s mimosas EVER again.

On a brighter note, the BBE was incredibly sweet and thoughtful throughout the whole thing, and reassured me repeatedly that I DID NOT ruin New Year’s for everyone (although I am still not convinced of this). He also helped me removed my sickly clothes, confirmed that I didn’t puke on my new furry boots, rubbed my back and put a cool washcloth on my neck while I kneeled to the porcelain god. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. So I guess I can say that, if anything, I might have missed the fireworks but I started the new year off with love. 🙂 …and some untainted and super cute new boots.

Earlier in December, I spent an afternoon at Magic Kingdom with the BBE, and in a fit of nostalgia decided to ride the spinning teacups after sharing a huge pineapple ice cream with the BBE. I am 33. Clearly, this had escaped me as I hopped into our teacup and began merrily swirling around the teacup ride, shrieking with delight. At least it was shrieks of delight UNTIL I began to feel woozy. I went from woozy to downright nauseous in less than 5 seconds, resulting in stumbling out of the teacup at the end of the ride, and being helped to a set of nearby benches by the BBE. I sat with my head between my knees for 15 minutes before I started to feel better. In an attempt to be a good sport, I agreed to ride Buzz Lightyear’s Space Ranger Spin before we left.

Big mistake. HUGE. I barely made it home.

The whole led me to an epiphany: I can’t do or eat the things like I used to when I was younger! Not that I’m a geriatric already, but dang! Couldn’t I have had the sense to ride something a little tamer (like, say, ANY OTHER RIDE IN THE PARK?!?)? Apart from being lactose intolerant and therefore having NO business eating dairy, I certainly shouldn’t have climber my 33-year old ass into that effing teacup, thinking it would all turn out fine. I certainly thought that I’d learned my lesson. At least, I thought I’d learned my lesson until I ruined my New Year’s Eve using the Seven Easy Steps listed above.

I also had an epiphany on NYE: I am not as young as I used to be, and with that, I cannot drink like I used to, nor do I have the cast-iron stomach to handle all kinds of foods like I used to. I did not have much to drink that night, but the little I did have just combined in my stomach with the disappointing (and EXPENSIVE) cuisine to become the gastronomic equivalent of Chernobyl. I haven’t been able to eat a regular meal for three days without feeling sick or dry-heaving. Young people don’t have this problem!! And to drive this point home, JUST IN CASE I MISSED THE POINT, on Sunday morning I found yet another GRAY HAIR! Getting old sucks. But what’s the alternative?

 Hoping your New Year’s started off with love!

 – The Sunburnt Peach


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