New Year's, to the wall, Til' the Sweat Drop down our ballsBy Kimberlee Ponce - 2 min read
A recount of New Year's in New York City 2017/2018...
6 AM on the L train in Brooklyn, New York. New Year's Day.
A recount of New Year's in New York City 2017/2018
The sunrise streams through the window. It illuminates the subway seats, reminding me it is only the sixth hour of 2018. The familiar vibration of the train dulled my ever-so-noticeable all-nighter. Though it felt longer than six hours into the new day. It felt as if it were one long unending continuum of flat fun. Last night I had joined all the other crazy fuckers who thought that fourteen degrees sounded like a good time.
But as far as I could tell the other twenty something's on the subway looked like they had a similar experience. Dopey eyed, heavy eyelids concealed their trying eye contact - a result from the winning combination of too much booze and too much booze. Somehow the subway missed this celebration.
Another glance around the subway reveals the adorable attempt to cuddle by couples. They try and sit as close as possible to another, and seemingly are, until, you realize that no matter what, there will always be a couple of puffy inches between them.
Everyone's head remains practically immobile from the trendy infinity scarf. Is it really even warmer than regular scarfs? Or is it just one more extra-confusing item to take off when you are drunk and single and undressing yourself? I consider this.
I don't get very far until I see those who clearly just want to be home already. Frozen fingers jammed deep into their coat pockets. Stewing over their lack of whatever it is they are lacking. More than just gloves, perhaps? I see those that continue to look pissed off at the world.
They nod their head to their music in a slightly intimidating fashion. I see the lax necks, taking sweet refuge on the metal handlebars. Mouths open, open relaxed looking palms on display. Lazy feet that are just an inch too far in the aisle. Riding along the subway, I reminisce the last night of 2017.
I remember briskly walking with hundreds of loud strangers, where ubiquitous animity became the new intimacy. Probably sleepy from their wild night out in the fourteen-degree weather, the culture and tourist hotspot this time of year is crowded and you just know they having a good time at the Times Square ball drop.
It felt like moving in one big cold ameoba, 42nd and 8th Street were buzzing with an unspoken giddiness. Constantly on the lookout for the pot holes. Being extra paranoid that my purse was zipped all the way.
I felt so many people walking, that I was practically being carried through the streets. Elbow here. Accident shoulder hit there.
Proof that all the booze, the one too many cigarettes, and the 2.75% transaction fee from your credit card that you just can't seem to let go of, all led to the years most classic moment in Times Square: 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1.