What Not to Wear on New Year’s Eve by Deb Tish

2006 was a busy one. I barely had time to notice the seasons change, let alone obsess over how people dressed.

Until the last thirty minutes of the year.

We stayed home New Year’s Eve. The kids were down with colds, so we figured our familial presence would not be missed at our friends’ party. So the kids went to bed early and Steve and I got into pajamas, turned on the TV and watched the countdown parties in bed.

First we saw the party in Arizona. Happy crowds waved sparkly stuff and a chic TV host dressed in what was likely a gratuitous winter coat and leather gloves pretended she was having the time of her life.

Then we flipped to the party in Times Square in NY. Happy crowds waved red inflatable tubes and a chic TV host dressed in a probably much-needed white furry coat pretended she was having the time of her life.

Next we flipped to the party in Nathan Phillips Square in Toronto. Happy crowds waved pastel inflatable tubes and a chic TV host dressed in a strapless red ballgown pretended she wasn’t shivering herself into hypothermic shock. I should add that the temperature was about 29 degrees Farenheit with windchill. To make matters worse, it was raining. An icy, Canadian, cold-enough-to-be-snow rain.

Yes, I was excited about the new year arriving, especially this one. Yes, I was interested in hearing my husband’s New Year’s resolutions. But I couldn’t look away from the thin red dress.

I wondered if she’d wake up sick the next day. I wondered if she’d been turned down for the Carribean assignment. I wondered if she had Hot Paws in her shoes. I wondered if her mother was watching.

Lying in the dark an hour and a half later, wondering why she couldn’t have had her Cinderella moment in, say, a red coat, I realized something. I haven’t evolved much from the toddler stage. I spend far too much time wondering -why? Specifically, why people do the things they do. I resolved to cut out the obsessing – at least long enough to get a full night’s sleep.

I’ll get right on that. As soon as I figure out why I do it.



9 Replies to “What Not to Wear on New Year’s Eve by Deb Tish”

  1. Was that tv host a 12-year-old girl perhaps? I have one of those and she, too, would prefer to wear something slinky and cute instead of wooly and warm. I know why the host wore the strapless red dress: Because she can. If I could shove my mother’s body into something sexy without causing the masses fits of hysterical blindness, I would. Red is so my color.

  2. Ahhh, see, it all comes back to the Red Dress!! Maybe she needed that shot of confidence and IT kept her warm?

    And, er, what the heck is a Hot Paw and why would one be in a shoe?

  3. Dear sweet beachcombing Kristy. A Hot Paw is a disposable plastic pack you can slip into a mitten or a boot and it gives off heat for a few hours. I’ve never been the kind of organized mother to buy them, but my kids’ friends sometimes have them for skiing or sledding.

  4. Living in Vermont, I know all about Hot Paws. I could have used some when I kept my poor little toddler out in the cold in New Year’s Eve watching our local parade and fireworks. Other moms had them — more prepared and organized moms.

    But what I want to know it this — what on earth are these inflatable tubes everyone was waving in New York and Toronto?

  5. If we didn’t wonder why, we’d never write novels. What I’m wondering is how the woman in the red strapless dress will work her way into one of yours…
    Sorry the kids had colds. (Mine, too–though they’re old enough that they went out anyway.)

  6. Jennifer – We wondered about that too. My husband says they’re plastic blow-ups, but the ones in Toronto looked like the balloons clowns use to make balloon dachsunds. Oh, and I’m glad to hear you’re not one of those organized mums. The disorganized, unsoccerish must stick together.

    Patry, Larramie – Not to worry. I spent much of today obsessing over the whys of claustrophobia, the safety of air travel and why writers say that only literary fiction is about characters. And the day’s not over…

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