Dropping the ball on New Year's Eve

Alcohol. Warmth. Food. Those are the typical key contributors to a truly celebratory New Year's Eve. So, you can understand how hard it was (especially considering I'd turned 21 this year) to wave goodbye to the traditional end-of-the-year bash - to turn away the generous amounts of liquor, beer, wine (pick your poison, but for me it's usually screwdrivers), the toasty comfort of a heated home and the heaping quantities of food.

Now that's how you celebrate the coming of a new year. I know; I've done it. But this year, I opted for something a little different - something a lot different, actually.

I endured the freezing cold for 13 hours. I ate nothing but two fruit granola bars and a hot dog all day. I indulged in only one glass of orange juice, which resulted in my single trip to the bathroom in more than 24 hours, the entire morning, afternoon and night. I stood with a sore back and aching (and I mean seriously aching) feet for more than 11, long, long hours. If that wasn't enough, snow started to fall, swiftly morphing into freezing rain before it hit my head. I would agree with anyone that this is definitely NOT the ideal way to ring in the New Year.

But, when I counted down that last minute, I knew that the nearly one million people surrounding me were thinking the same thing I was: this was completely and inexplicably worth it.

I had never felt so full, so energized, so warm as I did the moment that crystal ball dropped from the height of Times Square. I had never sung the New Year's Eve anthem, "Auld Lang Syne," with such sincerity. I watched as thousands and thousands of complete strangers sang with incredible vigor, hugged one another and even cried, screaming things like "Happy New Year," "I miss you" and "I wish you were here!" into their phones. I allowed myself the briefest moment to truly take everything in because I knew it would be over in a flash.

At only 21, I have witnessed in person one of the most sacred New Year's Eve traditions. I attended the biggest party in the world. I kissed my boyfriend at the start of a new decade as 3,000 pounds of confetti poured down from who knows where. For us, it could have been heaven.

I was lucky enough to share this experience with two of my best friends. The cold didn't matter; we had plenty of body heat. The hunger was nothing; I was full to the brim with excitement. The pain was nonexistent; I jumped and spun like I used to when I was little. And the only rain that mattered was the confetti bearing wishes and dreams for the new decade falling from every direction.

In the mad dash that followed: jogging through the streets of Manhattan, pushing past thousands of strangers, sprinting to catch the next train, I barely had a second to reflect. But as I settled down on the train next to Ruthie, across from Chris, I took a deep breath and laid my head back. Despite the long hours, little sleep and next-to-no nourishment, I wouldn't have traded that single countdown for all the alcohol, warmth and food in the entire world.

Go. Experience that. Revel in the tradition, history and excitement of the entire event, and realize for just one moment, you and those thousands of strangers around you are experiencing something many people only dream of being a part of. Even now, as resolutions are already starting to flicker out, the simple thought of that night burns resolutely in my memory. I have only a few words of advice: layer your clothes, bring a few snacks and pack a chair.

But in the end, you'll forget you ever wanted that stuff anyway.

fioravam@sbu.edu