The New Year’s Kiss. A wonderfully romantic, highly pressurised moment that happens on the stroke of midnight between the 31st of December and the 1st of January every year. A seemingly spontaneous moment when people all across the same time zone lock lips with their significant other, while the sad singles of the world look on in jealousy and desperation. Or so it seems!
I have had enough New Years to know that the idealised, Hollywood style, kiss in Times Square with a beautiful stranger (who later turns out to be your soul mate, future husband and baby daddy, and the man who you’ve shared various past lives with in a variety of exotic places) is not strictly true. Actually it’s not true at all. Actually it’s just a big load of bull crap.
Picture the scene: you, your friends, a party filled with beautiful people and perfectly concocted cocktails, flashing lights, tasteful decor. Everyone’s dancing with their little cliques. You look at your friends laughing and dancing and generally making fools of themselves and a surge of sisterly love flows through your veins. You’re so happy right now! You all sing loudly and very much out of tune, you all dance (or attempt to, but these heels are made for standing around looking hot, not for dancing) and someone smashes a drink on the dancefloor much to your loud, snorty amusement. But suddenly! The DJ stops mid-track! This could only mean something of utmost importance is about to happen! Has someone died? Has nuclear war been declared? NO! You almost forgot it was New Year’s Eve, you were having such an amazingly hysterical night (especially when that girl got her heel caught in a crack in the pavement and you got to skip past her in the queue while she was trying to yank it out. So graceful). It’s ten seconds to midnight of course!
And then the countdown begins.
TEN! I forgot a kiss is absolutely necessary. Slow motion and nausea kick in.
NINE! Horrified silence as people shout idiotically and limbs fly wildy through the air.
EIGHT! Kiss! Kiss?! Who the hell am I going to KISS?!!!
SEVEN! Desperate room scanning commences. Where did all the hot men go?! ARRRRRRRGH!
FIVE! People are getting bored of counting now, and have started sucking face already.
FOUR! People are pairing off! They’re pairing off! No! NO! Don’t pair off without me!
THREE! Oh, oh oh oh, where’s my asthma pump?! I think I’m having a panic attack!
TWO! A MAN! There’s one! An actual man who’s not been taken by the ho-bags in this club! Quick run before she gets him!
ONE! Bitch, get off! He’s mine!
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!! Yes! Your lips are on his! You’re kissing a man at midnight! You’re not a failure! Angels sing, violins play, an unexpected and heavenly breeze blows your hair and ruffles his in hot-Hollywood-hero style as you kiss and the people surrounding cheer you. Hallelujah! Hallelujaaaa!
But then… *Woomf!* You’ve come back down to earth quite harshly and may have bruised your coccyx as you landed embarrasingly on your tender bum. Oh ew! Who’s attached to my FACE?! Get off! Get off me! You manage to get out of his grasp and take a step back. He’s a greasy Edward-Scissor-Hands-a-like who’s about 45 and evidently hasn’t cleaned his teeth for the majority of his life. Your friends are laughing conceitedly at the fact that they all have boyfriends/found an amazingly sexy straight male model to make out with/decided they’d prefer not to horrifically embarass themselves by licking the face of a total minger.
So ladies, the moral of this tale is; don’t cave in to the pressure. If you haven’t got someone you actually want to kiss, then don’t kiss anyone at all. You may kiss a total weirdo, with milk bottle bottom glasses, an unconvincing toupee and mouldy teeth who ends up stalking you and watching you get undressed from the tree outside your house. You’ll have to go through a lengthy court hearing to take out a restraining order on him. And that’s never a good way to start a New Year.