This New Year’s Eve, I’m determined to enjoy myself while staying safe. 

People will be drinking, which raises the odds of unpredictable behavior, but I’ve come up with a safety first plan. It involves a whistle.

Yes, a whistle. It’s on a long chain and it has a vintage vibe that reminds me of old movies I’m too young to have seen, where police blew whistles and carried billy clubs. Speaking of billy clubs, my Aunt Josie kept one under her car seat. She told me if anyone got into her car uninvited, she would use it. This was the same aunt who baked the best pies, so it took me a while to process her dual personalities.

Why a whistle? Years ago, I had a purse siren, which came in handy when I tripped over a log and needed help. But in a dangerous situation, a siren is less practical. Telling an assailant, “Hold on, let me dig this out of my bag,” isn’t ideal. A whistle, on the other hand, is accessible and very, very loud.

Am I venturing into perilous places? Hardly. My idea of danger is taking the trash out after dark. 

Of course, there’s the tradition of the New Year’s kiss at midnight, but I avoid this like the plague! Expect to find me sidestepping the crowd and nervously scanning for escape routes. Not that there’s a line of suitors vying for my proximity, but one can never be too careful.

There was a time when New Year’s Eve felt like a grand occasion. We’d dress to the nines and eagerly hit the town. For some reason this brings up memories of my 90-year-old mother standing at my guest room door wearing silver stockings, a short skirt, long earrings and telling me, “Don’t wait up.” Clearly, the party spirit is a personality trait, not an age trait. 

As for me, I’m more of a lights-out-by-nine type. Early to bed, early to rise keeps me healthy—though the wealthy and wise part is up for debate.

I have trouble fully embracing the fun of New Year’s Eve because I can’t quite wrap my head around why we celebrate it now—in the darkest, coldest days of the year. Why not in the spring, when we also focus on renewal and growth and all that?

Besides, what are we counting from anyways—Moses? Adam? It feels arbitrary. Jewish New Year, in September, comes with honey cake. Chinese New Year, with its dragons and firecrackers, seems more festive. 

But regardless of the calendar or traditions, one thing is certain: with a whistle around my neck, I’m ready for anything.