New Year's Revolutions

PICTURE THIS: New Year’s Eve, 2017

Having aced my exams and survived the post-GCSE summer of love (for some), I started Sixth Form with a brand new sense of optimism. I had lost a few pounds (growth spurt), figured out my bra size (small), and the boy I fancied was finally single. That Christmas, I received a brand new pair of Dr Marten shoes, tartan trousers from Jack Wills, and numerous pairs of sparkly socks from Topshop. I was at the top of my game, but not necessarily the game that everyone else in my year was playing. You may be shocked, dear Readers, to discover that I didn’t have a Skins-esque teenagehood, going to raves, taking drugs and losing my virginity at a bus stop. In reality, I spent these years reading fanfiction and making stop-motion music videos in my bedroom. So, naturally, the most important thing to me at this age was “my first kiss”. Before any house party, social gathering, or even school discos, I would make a pact with myself that I wouldn’t leave (or allow my Dad to pick me up) until I had kissed a boy. Thus, inevitably, I would leave most of these occasions a tad deflated.

But everything changed when, on that Boxing Day, I received an unexpected invitation to the cool NYE party. I was torn. I was meant to spend the night with my best friend, Holly, drinking cider in her parents’ living room and eating Doritos. But this party could change everything. I called Holly to tell her the news, and she said the only way I could make it up to her for cancelling was to finally snog someone. I promised her that I would try my best, and, Readers, that is exactly what I did.

Following a Zoella smoky eye makeup tutorial on YouTube, I prepared myself for what would be, as I thought at the time, the most important night of my life. I donned my new Docs, sparkly socks and risque mesh party top from Brandy Melville (you know the one), and seized the night — in the passenger seat of my Dad’s Volvo. The house party was jumping. Despacito was booming from the speakers, all the kids had their fresh Nike Air Maxes on, and the Strongbow Dark Fruits was flowing. One girl had a pack of cigarettes she nicked from her Grandma, so we all huddled around her on the patio, desperate to take a drag in front of the boys to look cool. As it neared midnight, tensions were running high. People had begun to pair off already, sneaking into the bushes or having deep chats in the kitchen. I was running out of time. Out on the patio, I was chatting with a boy, the boy, whom I had harboured a very public crush on since Year 7. Even though he was the most popular boy in the year, we had always got on really well. He thought I was funny, and I thought he was gorgeous. My heart thumped harder in my chest in time with the countdown.

5, 4, 3, 2….1!

And we kissed.

Fireworks went off from a neighbouring garden, and the world seemed to stop. I remember thinking oh my god oh my god oh my god, and I couldn’t wait to tell Holly. It was a total dream come true. But, as the fireworks faded, so did my hopes. We went back into the house, and he didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night. We were all sleeping over, and suddenly the party wasn’t so fun anymore. I curled up on a sofa and spiralled. Did I do something wrong? Am I a terrible kisser? Did my breath stink of Doritos?

Then, in the darkness, I heard giggling. Turns out, the boy was sharing a sleeping bag with another girl. I could hear them talking about me and laughing, and then they went quiet, and I wept silently into the decorative sofa cushions.

In the morning, I tiptoed around the sleeping, hungover teenagers and found the house phone: ‘Dad, can you come and pick me up?’

The following day, the boy messaged me on Snapchat, asking to stay friends. And although my heart was somewhat broken, so was the spell. I didn’t have a crush on him anymore, and finally, I was free. 7 years later, at my school reunion, he actually apologised. He knew he had hurt me, and said his behaviour that night had haunted him ever since. We had a really good catch-up, and I felt like a million bucks.

No New Year’s Eve has lived up to the drama of 2017, and that’s fine with me. I’ve spent a few with friends, a few with family, and most years I am in bed way before midnight. But, no matter how I spend the night, I can never shake off the weight of expectation. By the 31st, I need to have planned my New Year Re-Brand on Pinterest, booked some random gym classes, and have ordered that new water bottle that will finally force me to drink two litres a day. I know it’s the patriarchy, and capitalism and all the rest, but underneath the bombardment of new year, new me advertisements, the voice in my head whispers seductively, ‘But Daisy, this could be your year…’ and I’m back down the resolution rabbit-hole.

This time around, I’m working 8am-5pm on New Year’s Day (hello Bank Holiday Pay), so my NYE won’t be too crazy. I’m seeing some friends for dinner, then I will probably have my skincare and manifestations done, and be in bed by 10 pm. I will welcome 2026 on the Bakerloo line (fingers crossed it’s running), and life will go on. It’s just another day after all.

I won’t meet someone doing karaoke at a ski resort, I won’t have an old friend confess his love for me whilst singing Auld Lang Syne, but, at least, I certainly will not cry over a boy who forgot about me five minutes after we kissed.

And amen to that.

I guess I’ve realised you don’t have to wait until the 1st of January to change your life. You can do that whenever.

Happy New Year, folks. I hope it treats you kindly.

KTF

xxx