Auld Lang Syne

When I was little New Years Eve used to scare the shit out of me. From my bedroom TV set I would watch the ball drop in Times Square, and while people counted down out loud, “ten... nine... eight...,” while they did this, my muscles would tense, the beads of sweat collecting on my forehead like I had just gone through five rounds of Russian Roulette with a partner and was being handed back the gun. And then “three... two... one... Happy New Year!” would happen, and while all of New York celebrated and kissed each other I’d let out a sigh of relief.

But then I would realize that confetti was only being dropped in the next time zone, and that here in Chicago, the possible end of the world would come for me in an hour.

Growing up, I was so afraid of the end of the world that every New Years celebration that went and passed was a miracle.

Years later, on the eve of Y2K, I smartened up a little. I figured out that if the end of world were to happen, the Australians would get it first. So I would watch for Armageddon to begin every year by watching the Sydney fireworks on CNN.

“Don’t worry about the world ending today,” I used to tell my little sister. “Because it’s already tomorrow in Australia.”