I’ve always liked the newness of an idea, project, thing, time or interaction. That’s why Chinese New Year is exciting. Wearing something new is a tradition. Each year as kids we looked forward to smoothing out a dress that had sat in the back of the wardrobe, still with price tags attached. Crossing our fingers and hoping that the purchase of a size larger at the post Christmas sales would accommodate for any awkward teenage growth spurt. Now I worry less about growing taller, rather the challenge is growing wider. I guess it happens to the best of us.
Last night’s conversation with dad reminded me that there is an order to things. The first day is for family, second is for in laws, third of the new year for friends. Given we are geographically orphaned from our respective families, we had to skip straight to day three. Lunch with friends, followed by the obligatory comatose nap on the couch.
If traditions are to be embraced, each new year the slate is wiped clean and luck automatically gets credited. That’s why as kids we never showered or washed our hair on the first day of the year. Who wants to wash away their luck?
We would also look for auspicious signs. The number 8, something red, a signal of some kind. It would be an inkling that the year would be lucky. We would eat sweets to bring around a sweet year ahead, and accept ang pows with glee. This New Year has started beautifully, phone calls with Crazy Daisy, Dad, Skinny Bean and Squee. Smelly never calls, but I suspect we were in her thoughts nonetheless. Surrounded by fabulous friends like Hurricane Ali and Liverpool Foster. The sky is blue, the snow is white and English Hubby still makes the most delectable cups of tea. Gong Hey Fatt Choi.