Maybe it was a long year of little sleep, little minded neighbours and little jeans that no longer fit.
Maybe it was returning home for the break to spend the wrong side of midnight in a bed made for two drinking double gin and tonics and eyeballing the very boxes I'd packed when I had to move out of the ex boys. Like some modern day Miss Haversham falling asleep surrounded by books and candles and trinket boxes that had lined our shelves and cluttered our surfaces.
Maybe it was the thought of counting down to midnight surrounded by beautiful married friends with their beautiful babies while guys are presented like little ted baker wrapped gifts "look Laura, he's male and might fancy you." My wild moggy used to bring me dead field mice in very much the same fashion and like those nibbled bodies they are quite cute to look at but you most definitely don't want one running about your living room.
Regardless, it came as no real surprise to the rest of my conscience being when I woke up to find that a large part of me had decided that, actually, I don't want to celebrate this year. Even less so if it involves spending £50 for entry privilege.
2012 has to be my year, Christ please can it be my year? I'll take the charming attractive boys, the gin benders, the seemingly endless wefts of other peoples hair strapped to my own of the year just gone but please god can I leave the heart ache, the split ends and the super sized thighs at precisely ten to midnight?
There have been highs, obviously, I finally got the job I'd wanted since leaving uni, I graduated a mark away from a first, I taught mum to use the app store, I run my own flat in London and I learned to handle a drink. Sort of anyway.
But I can't celebrate a year where I've ruined more than 2 sets of pillow cases with mascara stained tears, where red bull suddenly became a reasonable meal replacement, where everyone seemed to hook up and settle down while we bickered and split. My teeth are worn and my jaw is sore from the constant gritting, smiling at other peoples wonderful fortune while I'm the one with a bipolar boiler and someone's armpit spread across my face in the morning commute.
I can't celebrate a year where I've spent the last week of it with the top button of my jeans undone - to shovel more food in or to make room for the food I've already shovelled? I can't decide.
I can't celebrate a year but I can prepare for a new one. Endless plans, I'm going to join a yoga class, get my hair highlighted, I'm going to start accepting dates, recycle my bottles once a week rather than once a year, I want to really get stuck in to my career, I'm going to blog 3 times a week, cleanse tone moisturise, I'm going to lose so much weight, I'm not going to sweat the little things anymore, I'll set my alarm half an hour earlier than I do now, I'll learn to cope with the pain of a good wax, I'm going to take better care of myself, learn to cook, pick up a language, stop being so bloody moody, start writing that book I've always thought about, read a book a week, stop buying lunch every single day.
I can't celebrate this year but you sure as hell watch this space next year ...