Dress up, find a date (quickly), buy over-priced alcohol and wait in line in the cold for a taxi. Christine Houde on why she hates New Year's Eve.

Tonight, surrounded by friends and family, I'll raise a glass of champagne, scan the room for someone to kiss, and before the clock strikes midnight, realise I'm a failure.

I admit, that's not entirely true. I'll probably realise I'm a failure much earlier in the day, when I start to paint my bitten-down, practically non-existent fingernails or can't squeeze even my left thigh into my favourite trousers. Let's just hope I don't realise it the way I did last year when, running out the door 45 minutes late, I tripped, tearing another pair of too-tight trousers and landing with amazing precision on top of the cake I was carrying.

Regardless, I'm about to get dressed up, drink overpriced alcohol and wait in the cold for a taxi that, let's be honest, is never going to come.

Call it cynicism or melodrama, but I loathe New Year's Eve. It's just not fun celebrating the many, many things I meant to accomplish last year but didn't. There's no joy in that awful, inevitable moment when it becomes apparent Christmas dinners, puddings and fruitcakes have firmly attached themselves to my rear. And it's downright humiliating to make the same resolutions year after year, knowing full well that in another 365 days I'm still going to show up late for everything and chew on my fingernails.

New Year's Eve is a night of mammoth expectation. For the next few weeks, the question immediately following "How are you?" will be "What did you do for New Year?" And if the answer is "nothing", it's a conversation stopper. So we plan, argue, and plan again, hoping to achieve a night on the town to put all other nights on the town to shame.

The problem is, everyone has a different agenda. Couples will pretend to be part of the group, but eventually wander off to some corner, stare deeply into each other's eyes, and find blissful symbolic meaning in the fact they're spending the arbitrary night of December 31st together. The unattached will scour the bar for that perfect midnight snog but, with plenty of hours to spend before they go in for the kill, just end up getting drunk.

If you're single, an intoxicated member of the opposite sex with bad teeth and boring stories will inevitably find you irresistible and be compelled to follow you around the bar. While at first this is immensely irritating, you'll drown your sorrows in alcohol and a few drinks later begin to think your stalker bears a striking resemblance to Beckham.

But there are even worse things about New Year's Eve than incapacitated drunks. Your friends, for instance. One is dancing on the bar, taking off her shirt or passing out in the bathroom. Which means your night will consist of following the friend as she dances on the bar, takes off her shirt and passes out in the bathroom to ensure she doesn't do something she'll really regret tomorrow morning.

Then there are the friends in awkward, yet-to-be-defined relationships who, tortured by the evening's immense pressure to seal the deal, pester everyone in the bar for advice. Does she really like me? Do I really like her? Should I find her at midnight? It's enough to make your head spin. Or maybe that's just the gin and tonics.

In the meantime, you're paying €6 for pints of Heineken and hanging around the buffet table, trying to consume enough tiny quiches and burnt sausages to justify the club's exorbitant cover charge. Let's not forget the 20 minutes spent waiting in line to order each Heineken and the even longer wait for the chance to release them from your bladder.

And what's the point of all this "celebration" anyway? It's winter, you've just endured an incred ibly expensive festive season and will soon have to start planning for the next big romantic night out, in the middle of February. Why not space all the fun out a little, move New Year celebrations to the spring?

In the end, by the time that clock strikes midnight, all the unsuccessful resolutions and relationships will be temporarily forgotten. You've got more important things to remember, like the words to Auld Lang Syne. So pick up that shot of cheap champagne and instead of reflecting on failures and overpriced, over-important nights out, concentrate on making the next year a success.

Your first triumph? Tomorrow's hangover will be even bigger than last year's.