New Year’s Eve not fun for non-drinkers
Evening holds little appeal for those opting to remain sober during revelry

I hate New Year’s Eve. It’s not that I find anything inherently wrong with the holiday itself. You see, two New Year’s Eves ago, I made a resolution to stop drinking. This resolution somehow has lasted two years, and I don’t regret making it. I believe that I’m a better person for it.

Now I should point out that I’m not some prude. I’m not going to go out and form a temperance union and hack up saloons with a chain saw. Giving up alcohol was strictly a personal decision, and believe me, I don’t fault anyone who wants or needs alcohol to have a good time.

But therein lies my problem. New Year’s Eve is the ultimate “good time” celebration, and inevitably, us sober people get left out of the loop. I’ve personally passed the point of being jealous of my drinking friends to just dreading being around them on a holiday when Moet bottles get drained like swamps and funnels overtake paper cups as the most popular fluid receptacle.

Any sober person who doesn’t think New Year’s Eve is the most insufferable holiday of the year is either lying or not really sober.

Normal parties are difficult enough for sober folks. I know the shame of sneaking upstairs to the kitchen sink with your paper cup and, when no one’s looking, filling it with tap water to fit in. New Year’s Eve borders on sheer torture, simply because you know everyone is going to be drinking. You can’t call someone up on New Year’s Eve and ask them if they’d like to go see a movie or shoot some pool. People only have one thing on their minds that day.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, because there’s not. But try to see it through the eyes of someone who basically had two options that night: stay home alone and ring in 2001 in my basement watching flesh-covered cyborg Dick Clark, or attend a hedonistic orgy with a sweating mass of inebriates in a little house not suited for a tea party, much less a New Year’s Eve bash.Since five minutes of watching Mr. American Bandstand would probably drive me to drink (and heavy drugs) anyway, I opted for the latter. So I braved the harsh Missouri winter, the State Police’s fascist sobriety checkpoints and the lack of parking to attend a “get-together” at a friend’s house. If anything, I told myself, it would at least be interesting.

And interesting it was. Entertaining, maybe not. I figured I could amuse myself by counting the number of people who entered the room screaming “Okay ... the party can officially start now that I’m here!” but after the first dozen or so, that game got old. Then I tried to strike up conversations with some of my bleary-eyed friends. Coherent discourse, however, was also lost on this event.Invariably, the person extolling the artistic merits of “Dude, Where’s My Car?” (and believe me, there are many) would get drowned out by the girl who kept asking if I too could see those weird little flashing lights, and both were drowned out by the shirtless guy singing the chorus to “Ms. Jackson” at the top of his lungs.

It was a mere 30 minutes into 2001 that I decided I’d had enough, and I left that sweaty house to its revelry. As I walked down the icy street, the muffled sounds of a butchered version of “Auld Lang Syne” ringing in my head, a thought occurred to me. Maybe we could all be more compassionate. Maybe sober people like me should just loosen up and have fun. After all, if we don’t need alcohol to have fun, then why aren’t we? And maybe those who drink could act a little less scornful when the sober people ask them for a Pepsi. The best social lubricant is always conversation, whether it’s facilitated by a foreign substance or not.

In the end, however, the new year is enough to make any sober person cower in fear. That night, as everyone did the usual hugs and kisses routine at midnight, I found myself in the drunken death grip of a girl I used to know. I had been noticing her looking at me all night. Not in that good “hey-let’s-REALLY-ring-in-the-New-Year” way, but in the confused, “do-I-know-this-person?” way.

I whispered in her ear: “You have NO idea who I am, do you?”

She stepped back and looked me over. Then the girl — who I played baseball with every Fourth of July picnic, who I went to see when she was Fairy #2 in “Peter Pan” and who on several occasions indulged my sad, smitten self with trips to breakfast before school started — looked me in the eye and responded honestly:

“No.”

I’ll drink to that.

Jack Bullion is a junior English major from Columbia, Mo. He can be reached at (j.w.bullion@student.tcu.edu).

Editorial policy: The content of the Opinion page does not necessarily represent the views of Texas Christian University. Unsigned editorials represent the view of the TCU Daily Skiff editorial board. Signed letters, columns and cartoons represent the opinion of the writers and do not necessarily reflect the opinion of the editorial board.

Letters to the editor: The Skiff welcomes letters to the editor for publication. Letters must be typed, double-spaced, signed and limited to 250 words. To submit a letter, bring it to the Skiff, Moudy 291S; mail it to TCU Box 298050; e-mail it to skiffletters@tcu.edu or fax it to 257-7133. Letters must include the author’s classification, major and phone number. The Skiff reserves the right to edit or reject letters for style, taste and size restrictions.