January first is my least favorite day of the year--so much so, that I spend the entire sweet, soft, post-Christmas week dreading it. December 31st is mournfully bittersweet--comfortable, no matter what the prior year has brought. That whole one-one thing of the new year--it's like a new pair of school shoes--too shiny, to uncomfortable, biting into your feet, layering pain on top of the absolute horror of a new school year.
Throw in the itchy new clothes, and we're talking one bummer of a first day.
But then, I don't buy new clothes. I'll jury-rig a pair of jeans, a pair of shoes, for years. I cried when I had to retire the old Bean boots I 'inherited' (read: stole) from my mother; I think they were older than me.
So, no. I don't like this whole new year thing. But then, I never was one for parties, for glitz, for leaving my quiet corner of the world. I'll take the quieter flavor of drama in my beginnings--a mad snowfall, a full moon so bright it wakes me from sleep, tides so high they give the beach no choice but to rearrange itself.
It's not the year that's new or happy--it's just the moment, the day, plain and unpredictable, and always something to celebrate.