I am historically depressed on the first day of the year. Perhaps it’s the feeling of getting closer to death. As I kid, I’d wonder, “Is this the year I’ll die?” I would envision my tombstone: Stephen Robinson, 1974 – 1986. No one cared. That was in the simpler days when I had no real enemies. Twenty years later, the tombstone would have read, Stephen Robinson, 1974 – 2006. Someone is laughing.
When I was younger, New Year’s was a let down because school usually started again the next day. Two weeks off from school when you’re a pre-teen is long enough for you to think it will
New Year’s is also the last real holiday for what seems like months. Valentine’s Day is not a day off and it’s rather insular. There are no Valentine’s Day parties. It’s the day when single women are depressed, and single men don’t realize how lucky they are to be able to ignore it.
January kicks off weeks off winter that don’t aren’t offset by Christmas songs. I’m usually glad to see the Christmas songs go but I wish winter went with them. Winter is like the obnoxious friend of the holidays who lingers at the party after its more charming companion has long since left.
But the day is not over yet, so I can comfort myself in my two New Year’s traditions — listening to U2’s “New Year’s Day” and watching the “Twilight Zone” marathon on SyFy. I gave up cable TV along with my less destructive crystal meth addiction, but I can still participate thanks to YouTube and iTunes.
Happy New Year,
1974 – 2012