Here we are again at the worst holiday of the year — New Year’s Eve (and Day). They occur in a dark, cold season, are especially painful for those alone, but plenty bad in a crowd since forced jollity is expected. To achieve jollity alcohol is often resorted to, giving you a new regret wth which to start a new year, along wth resolutions to do better that you know you are almost certain to break.

The entire point of the celebration is to acknowledge that time marches inexorably on. As if we could forget. When young, time moving on may seem jolly, but the older you get the less reminding you need that the hourglass is funneling your life away, grain by grain. There are more than enough reminders that time is leaving you behind.

The thought of joining amped up revelers in some frigid city at midnight, jammed together exchanging germs and risking a terrorist attack, is revolting and likely to drive you cowering under the covers long before the band strikes up Auld Lang Syne.

Of course, the band doesn’t seem to do that anymore. In Times Square, the Manhattan egomaniacs seem compelled to play “New York, New York” at the drop of a ball, while elsewhere some rapper raps something having nothing to do with the occasion.

This kind of change for the worse is hardly news. Even old holiday TV friends are no longer available to offer solace and continuity — I refer to seasonal classics like “Holiday Inn,” “Christmas in Connecticut,” and “Remember the Night.” I looked for them this year in vain.

The younger generations have apparently decreed they will no longer tolerate black and white movies or any made before, say, 1985. Even full-color films like “Pocketful of Miracles,” “Prancer,” and “Home for the Holidays” didn’t make the cut, and the latter stars Iron Man before he was iron. So we are stuck with “Elf” and “Bad Santa.”

I have increasingly noticed this phenomenon as “Best Ever” lists have now relegated any book, movie or song from before the birth of the first Millennials to the cultural ash-heap. It’s not bad enough that my generation lives in terror of losing its memories, the newbies have already embraced historical amnesia as a lifestyle choice.

Finally, the sappy premise of New Year’s is the promise of a new beginning. But anyone with a bit of mileage on them is aware that this is a fantasy. To paraphrase Peter Townsend’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again:”Meet the new year, same as the old year.

In a time experiencing exuberant improvement on all fronts, unrestrained joy may be in order, but in an era characterized by multiplying existential challenges that we refuse to acknowledge let alone address, revelry seems like self-delusion.

History suggests ignoring the obvious can’t last forever. After the hangover, 2020 will still be there to face, with all the same unsolved problems— as unwelcome as the bleary, old eyes in the mirror. And unless we get our act together as a country and a planet, dropping the ball and fireworks may be alarmingly realistic symbols of the future that lies ahead. Make mine Auld Lang Syne.