I started the year standing at the corner of 38th Street and Broadway - too far from the heart of Times Square to experience the real thing, yet close enough to see the fireworks, and to stand among the crowds of people hoping to catch a glimpse of something.
We caught a glimpse of nothing - except people climbing up street poles and on top of telephone booths in hopes to get a better view. They didn't, but I'm convinced they felt a tad more special by their elevated status and the fact that they could look down on us and shake the ashes from their cigarettes on top of innocent bystanders below.
I was one of the innocent bystanders.
Then again, the people I sat beside on my two legs into the city earlier in the day were also innocent bystanders, except they were bysitters rather than by standers. The poor woman on my flight to Philly, and the handsome man I sat beside the rest of the way into New York were both exposed to my germs and my incessant sneezing.
I start this year sick, and confused by the man on Broadway dressed up as Santa Claus. He must have missed the memo that Santacon was weeks ago.