The best New Year’s Eve I ever spent I went to bed at 9:00. The snow was falling in Lakewood, and it was so quiet and so beautiful outside that the evening seemed to be telling us to make a cup of tea, heat up some tomato soup and call it quits before the New Year sounded at midnight.

To be snuggled under a blanket on a cold night, on a famous eve that is traditionally loud and glittery, and fall asleep watching the snow gather in the boughs of the trees outside, seemed like an act of rebellion at the time. I woke up the next morning, free of a headache and remorse, and started the new year feeling fresh and rested. What a revelation, I thought.

Now it’s a tradition–to opt out of parties and expensive four- course dinners at fancy restaurants. I don’t miss the horn blowers or the party hats or the counting backwards. I don’t miss crawling to my car in high heels at 2:00 am, scaling snowbanks in the frigid cold and sticking to my vinyl seat on the way home. I don’t miss the ball dropping in New York City on tv or the crowds at bars I used to go to as a younger woman in Buffalo. I don’t miss kissing anyone at midnight. Sorry, honey.

My husband loves my stance on New Years. It saves him money, and removes the horrid threat of having to dress up. He’s never come home on a December day to tell me he’s made exciting plans for us on December 31st. He’s never yelled, “Go get yourself a little black dress!” And even though I prefer to go to bed at 9:00, I’m mad at him for it anyway.

So, I’ve decided next year, I’m having a party. Who’s with me? I want just one more big blowout. The kind with bubbles and a jazz quartet on stage with a great saxophone player and a champagne tower and streamers and confetti falling from the ceiling. Sometimes you just have to get out of your routine and celebrate life like you’re twenty again, like it’s 1920. Then, the next year, we can go back to our regularly scheduled tomato soup and our tv trays.

For this year, though, I wish you happiness in the days to come. We all wish that for one another, but everyone knows a whole year can never be entirely happy. Contentment is a great substitute then. Peace is a lovely goal.

Maybe, then, tomorrow, don’t check the news headlines when you first wake up. And decide you won’t approach the new year like a competitive sport. There’s an app for guided breathing, another for mindful eating, and probably one for meditating while folding laundry. Download them all, then delete them when you realize they stress you out more than actual stress.

And find peace in small wins. Your peace might not look like a spa day in a mountain lodge. It might look like drinking your coffee while it’s still warm, or finding an empty checkout line at the grocery store. I’m thrilled when I find my car in the parking lot in under five minutes. Celebrate these tiny victories with the enthusiasm of someone who just won the lottery–or at least found a missing sock.

I’m going to lower my expectations this year. Maybe we’ll have cereal for dinner on occassion. Maybe it’s okay to leave the dishes for tomorrow. Inner peace isn’t about perfection, sometimes it’s about letting go. I’m letting go a whole lot of things this year, but I have some great hopes for achieving a few things on my list of goals. I’d like to get more help around the house, which leads me to my next resolution: laugh more.

The absurdity of modern life requires a sense of humor. There’s a lot of things happening in the world that I don’t find particularly funny, but I’m going to work on being more jovial despite it all. Let me know how I’m doing, would you?

So here’s to 2025: the year we all take a collective deep breath, roll our eyes at the noise, and say, “Not today, chaos.” Let the dishes pile up, let the world spin, and let yourself care less–because peace doesn’t come from perfection. It comes from knowing when to let go. Love the heck out of the people who make your life special, send more cards and make more phone calls. Be more present in your own life and in the lives of people you love.

And join my party committee. We’re going to ring in next year like we’re twenty again. Rest up. I know a good saxophone player. We’ll start there.