There was a time when New Year’s Eve made me giddy. When the idea of seeing all of my friends and stumbling through a drunken haze was paramount, the date an excuse to let go all of the previous year’s shackles, to reconnect with people who only come together on this, the holiest of party days.

It mattered where I was. It mattered who I saw. The night was for my friends.

Sometime over the last decade, my priority shifted to where friends drifted away and family took their place; where the night was no longer an excuse to drink and be rowdy, but instead an excuse to stay up until midnight reading my book.

Last night, we watched DVDs until midnight. We went to bed. And we woke up with a clear mind, with nothing to hold us back from the new year.

Maybe it’s the natural move toward adulthood. I think it’s simply a stage of growing up. But after a decade where I got married, had two beautiful children, learned a new trade and started doing what I wanted to do as opposed to what I thought I was supposed to be doing, I don’t miss the old New Year’s Eve tradition.

It used to matter where I was.

Come to think of it, it still does.

It’s just that the location has become a little quieter. A little closer. And a whole lot more important.