Wednesday, January 23, 2019 // The Statement
3B
M
y blasé attitude toward New
Year’s Eve was challenged while
standing in the dairy aisle of the
grocery store.
Before that moment, I have never been
one to indulge in the holiday branded with
sequin dresses, champagne flutes and a
drunken chorus counting down to another
year of obligations. The occasion never quite
seemed to fulfill “An Affair to Remember’s”
promise of finding romance atop the Empire
State Building.
Yet, the disillusionment accompanied
with New Year’s Eve unexpectedly returned
to my mind last December. As my mother’s
daughter, I was raised to always check the
item’s expiration date while grocery shop-
ping. In accordance with her principle, I
stretched my arm into the cooler scanning
for the freshest gallon of milk, only to real-
ize the entire shelf was stamped with the
imminence of 2019.
All of the 2018 milk was gone. The
dairy aisle had already moved on to
the promise of a new year. There
would never be another gallon of
milk on the shelf expiring in 2018. I
felt a fizzy sentimentality bubbling
inside of me. Perhaps this was the
feeling people seek to experience
when the clock strikes midnight.
Standing before the milk and
all of its oat, soy, almond and skim
siblings, I decided I was going
to wholeheartedly embrace New
Year’s Eve this year. My family was
headed to the beach to escape over-
cast Midwest skies and the hazy
disorientation that accompanies
the week between Christmas and
New Year’s.
A perfect opportunity to give
New Year’s Eve a second chance.
The night arrived and I donned
my gauzy linen pants with an airy
top. My mom told me I looked like
Annie Hall if she was going to the
beach. Diane Keaton is a legend, so
I took her words as a compliment.
Despite the fact we had been on
vacation for nearly a week, my Irish
complexion was barely sun kissed
— I preferred to camp out under
the beach umbrella. The thought
of being kissed at midnight briefly
wandered across my mind, before
I realized my expectations were a
construct of watching far too many
romantic comedies.
The spontaneity of my New
Year’s Eve rested upon the resort’s
banquet seating chart. As some-
one who has only ever attended
one wedding and drools over Anna
Wintour’s Met Gala seating chart,
I was thrilled by the prospect of
indulging in conversation with total
strangers. Maybe I would meet my
own Cary Grant.
I found my seat and eagerly waited for my
dashing “An Affair to Remember” moment.
The hostesses swam through the tables
guiding families to their seats. My eager-
ness resembled the novelty of watching pas-
sengers file onboard an airplane as you cross
your fingers for an amiable person to fill the
empty window seat next to you.
A family moved through the crowd and
paused at our table. I looked up, ready to
lock eyes with the person who would prove
to me the glamour of New Year’s Eve is not
reserved for Deborah Kerr. Yet, my leading
man was not a handsome Brit. As fate would
reveal, I was seated across from a 12-year-
old boy.
His
name
was
Daniel.
Last
name
unknown. We were both seated at the end
of the table, awkwardly too far away to be
included in the “adult” conversation that
our parents were already engaging in. I
found myself staring at the buffet fixings on
my plate. Lobster Imperial. Sushi. Lasagna.
Hummus. It looked like Epcot had spewed
all over my plate.
I should add this experience was made
even more bizarre by the theme of the ban-
quet: medieval renaissance. Waiters donned
knight costumes and the call of bugle horns
bellowed throughout the hall.
So there we sat, Daniel nibbling on his
kosher chips and salsa with the muted dia-
logue of his mother explaining the stress of
bar mitzvah season on the Upper West Side
floating in the background.
I figured I would introduce myself since
our eight-year age difference seemingly bur-
dened me with the responsibility to lead the
conversation. I would characterize the dis-
course that ensued as more of an interview. I
would ask questions and he would respond.
I asked him what he did for fun and soon
learned he enjoyed playing chess. I harkened
back to my limited exposure to the game as
an elementary school student during recess
— Daniel was quick to correct me that he is a
competitive chess player.
The rest of dinner conversation was check-
ered with Daniel explaining the lifestyle of
a burgeoning chess champion. He outlined
his rigorous practice schedule with both a
private chess coach and online portal only
accessible to ranked players. He described
his plans to travel to Norway to compete
against chess grandmasters in a tourna-
ment. I learned about the governing bodies
of the chess world — both domestically and
internationally. He revealed tournament
scandals, like the time a player flipped the
entire chess board over in frustration mid-
game. He noted the disputed rules of chess
and how computers have made gameplay
more vulnerable to cheating. And thanks to
our conversation, I now know the best chess
players are from Turkey and Scandinavia,
but the United States holds its own alright.
This conversation lasted until Daniel
cleared his plate and left to go play pool. I
say this nonchalantly, because by the end of
our conversation on strategy games, I would
not have expected anything less from the
boy I had just met.
I soon excused myself, too, bid farewell
to my parents and schlepped off to my hotel
room well before midnight.
There I found myself lying on the bed
watching Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen
head into the fourth hour of their New
Year’s Eve broadcast. As “Auld Lang Syne”
began to hum from the televised streets of
Times Square to my hotel room, I realized
while I would likely never see Daniel again,
he was certainly an acquaintance I would
not forget. Maybe New Year’s Eve isn’t about
finding love. Maybe instead it is a night that
glimmers with the hope of witnessing some-
thing unforgettable.
BY SHANNON ORS, DEPUTY STATEMENT EDITOR
New Year’s knight
ILLUSTRATION BY SHERRY CHEN
“Perhaps this
was the feeling
people seek
to experience
when the
clock strikes
midnight.”