It was 1983, New Year's Eve. I was 14 years old...
What happened at my first New Year's Eve party...
Mr. Skeptical interrupts, “I really don’t want to hear about you breaking your virginity.”
I give him a puzzled look, “This isn’t about me breaking my virginity, but it is about my first New Year’s Eve Party.”
Subconscious Fat at 30,000 feet
I was bored at home. I sighed, thinking this is going to be another New Year’s Eve like last year.
My parents divorced about two years earlier, so both of my parents would do their own thing on New Year’s Eve, and I’d stay at home and watch TV: Dick Clark promoted the ball dropping in Times Square.
It was a depressing time for me as a 14-year-old. I had hormones raging, pimples on my face, and the fear of hair growing on my hands or going blind due to too much masturbation.
Mr. Skeptical interrupts again, “So you were a pervert.”
“No, I don’t see that as perversion; I see it as totally normal for a 14-year-old.”
“But you went to a Catholic school, you must’ve been taught that masturbation is a sin.”
“Exactly, which is one reason why I’m no longer Catholic. Stop it with your rude interruptions.”
Mr. Skeptical folds his arms and looks away.
Subconscious Fat at 10,000 feet
As I’m sitting at home bored out of my mind and watching Dick Clark on TV, the doorbell chimes.
Who could that be?!
I go to the window before opening the door and see my friend Charlie standing there.
A surge of excitement ran through my body.
Mr. Skeptical interrupts yet again. “Is this where you admit to us that you're gay?”
I give him an irritated look. “If I were gay or bisexual, I’d happily admit it and be proud of it.”
He gives me a smug look in response.
Charlie was a prized friend for many because he was 16 and could drive. It was thanks to Charlie that many 14-year-olds like me could get anywhere.
Mr. Skeptical asks, “Why wasn’t Charlie hanging out with other 16-year-olds who also drove?”
“He was put back a year or two in school, so most of his friends were younger than him. Plus, Charlie lived in a beautiful home on Pine Tree Drive in Miami Beach and always drove a nice Audi or Mercedes-Benz.”
“So you used your friends. You used your friends for what they had, not who they were.”
I put my hand to my forehead and sigh. And I decide to ignore Mr. Skeptical’s remark because otherwise, I’ll never get through what happened.
Subconscious Fat at Eye-Level
When I open the door, I hear the most beautiful words come out of Charlie’s mouth: “Do you want to go to a New Year’s Eve Party?”
I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I felt like I had just won the lotto.
He’s wearing a suit and recommended I wear one too.
We go into my bedroom, and I find a suit that barely fits me, and off we go.
Before I left, I told my grandmother I was going to a party with Charlie. She asked at what time I’d be home, and I looked at Charlie, who shrugged his shoulders, so I just said I won’t be long.
Mr. Skeptical comments, “I’m guessing that was a lie.”
“It was.”
The party was at La Gorce Country Club in Miami Beach. This was behind Charlie’s home. We parked at his place and walked across the golf field to the prestigious clubhouse.
Built in the 1920s, the club was founded by John Oliver La Gorce (a vice president of the National Geographic Society and a buddy of Miami Beach developer Carl Fisher).
The party was amazing. Although I was hoping to see more teenage girls my age, there weren’t many. There were a lot of older people, and of course, lots of champagne and wine.
Mr. Skeptical adds, “So this is where you first drank alcohol?”
“Yes, it was, and I drank a lot of it.”
“What happened? Do tell?”
“I remember going into the bathroom and not being able to get out. I remember being overly friendly and congratulating older ladies and men, saying how nice it was to meet them, and thanking them for what? I don’t know.”
Mr Skeptical laughs.
At least I was a nice drunk. Both Charlie and I ended up trying to cross the golf course to get back to his place, and stopped in the middle of it to throw up and pass out.
The early morning light woke us up, and we staggered back to Charlie’s house. And to my shock and surprise, my parents were there, and even worse, my grandfather.
My parents gave me a scolding and reminded me that, despite being divorced, they are together in raising me. That wasn’t so bad.
Mr. Skeptical’s eyebrows raise, “It wasn’t?”
“No. What was worse was that my grandfather didn’t tell me anything, only appearing disappointed…and that bothered me the most.”
Practical Suggestions and Conclusions
Mr. Skeptical sighs, “So is there a lesson to be learned from this experience?”
“I didn’t expect this, but I remember simply being embarrassed and ashamed that my grandfather saw me like that. He was the one who impacted me the most. He was a quiet man and said few words. He’d work 12-14-hour days at his restaurant 7 days a week.
Years later, when he helped pay for my chiropractic education, it motivated me even more to pass my classes and ensure his investment in me didn’t go to waste.
Sometimes more is said with fewer or no words.”
Be aware.
Other links related to this post:
Remember the Kitchen Club?
Jumping Off Haulover Bridge
Alcohol and Carnivorism PS Links on LinkedIn, Facebook, and Instagram. ChatGPT was used to research and enhance this post.