A New Year's Quandary

New Year's Eve is just too much pressure. Pressure to get dressed up. Pressure to go out. Pressure to have fun, fun, fun!

"What are you doing New Year's Eve?" everyone wants to know.

"I don't know. What are you doing?" you sheepishly respond.

The original questioners are usually smug people who stitched up their own plans months ago. Plans that include lying on a tropical beach hundreds of miles from the tourists in Times Square and the club-hopping trustafarians in Chelsea.

Married couples are technically under a bit less pressure than the average young urban professional. After all, they have each other! They can have a romantic evening in together rather than a pathetic night home alone. Nothing but Champagne, confetti, and cuddling in an approximation of old ads for Harvey's Bristol Cream... Then again, you may end up sitting around all night with your spouse thinking about what you could've-would've-should've done - each silently blaming the other for failing to rustle up suitably festive plans.

For years, Andy and I have been spared New Year's Eve plan-making dilemmas thanks to our friend Meredith. Her birthday conveniently falls on New Year's Eve and every year, she hosts a combined New Year's/birthday party.

Every year until 2004, anyway.

Last year, Meredith didn't have a party: She got married on Christmas Eve and spent New Year's Eve (and so her birthday) in Belize on her honeymoon. This year, she wasn't throwing herself a New Year's Eve/birthday party; when asked, she said she and her new husband were "making it a low-key New Year's."

Looking back on them now, Meredith's parties seem inexorably linked to her various apartments and our corresponding life stages. There was the dark, drink-heavy party our first year out of college in the futon-and-poster-decorated two-bedroom on West 108th Street she shared with a friend from high school; the elegant sit-down dinner party in her prewar one bedroom on West 88th with overstuffed chairs from Pottery Barn; the charades party in her West Village studio with the bathroom painted candy-apple red and the baked-brie-and-crudites-heavy cocktail party in her then-boyfriend/now-husband's Williamsburg loft - complete with ping-pong table.

Meredith & Co.'s decision not to throw a party left Andy and me in a quandary, even though they had asked us to a New Year's Day brunch in their current Park Slope floor-thru.

"So tell me again why Meredith is bagging her party?" Andy asked earlier this week. We were having dinner at our favorite Italian place on Court Street.

"She isn't really bagging it," I explained, alluding to the brunch invite.

"You know," I told Andy, "we have a grand total of five brunches this year. And not one New Year's Eve party."

The days when we spent New Year's Eve hopping between four parties were gone now. New Year's Day was the new New Year's Eve. "We really are getting old," Andy said.

I shrugged. "On the bright side, they're all in Brooklyn."

As much as we like a wintry Saturday morning of bagels with friends, we needed a plan.

"It can't be that hard to come up with something to do," Andy said, refocusing my attention.

"Okay," I said. "Then come up with an idea."

He squinted, then twirled fettuccine around his fork. "I guess going out to a 'nice dinner' is totally out of the question."

I laughed. A few months before, we'd determined we weren't "nice dinner" people. Too much pressure there, too, I imagine.

"We could always just go to a movie," I said. "Though it seems sacrilegious somehow."

I suddenly understood why all those people stand in the freezing cold in Times Square on New Year's Eve: Say what you will about that crowd, at least they had a plan that made shouting "Happy New Year!" seem appropriate.

"Whatever we do," I said, "we should make it an early night. We've gotta rest up for all of our brunches."

Andy groaned and I smiled. We were still drawing a collective blank when Meredith called on December 26. "What are you guys doing New Year's Eve?" she asked after I'd wished her a happy first anniversary.

"We're not sure," I said, then busted out the catch-all, "probably just something low-key."

"Well, if you don't have plans, I was thinking of having a few people over that night to celebrate my birthday." "We'd love to come," I said, hoping I didn't sound overeager. After settling on all of the details - come at 9, she'd make dinner, we'd bring dessert and a bottle of wine-I had to ask the question. "What made you decide to revive the New Year's Eve/birthday tradition?"

"For one thing," she said, "everyone started calling and saying 'How can you not do your birthday party?' I was starting to feel guilty and lame about brunch."

"Brunch isn't lame...." I offered lamely.

"Well it wasn't just that," she continued. "It's funny. I always had the best time combining my birthday party with New Year's Eve. But then this year, we decided to do something just us. Suddenly, it was less my birthday than it was New Year's. I felt all obligated to plan something just right.

"You know, Eve," she said. "New Year's Eve is just too much pressure."

The Brooklyn Chronicles appears each Friday.Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/archive_chronicles.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.