It's time to admit it: Hubby and I have officially crossed over into the land of Old and Tired.

For a few years we hovered in the realm of Young-at-Heart, then briefly visited the village of Not-Young-But-Still-Trying. We can't avoid reality any longer.

This year, Dick Clark and Ryan Seacrest may have to drop the Times Square New Year's Eve ball without us.

We do have tentative New Year's Eve plans with friends for a movie, then back to one of our houses to ring in the new year. Something tells me if Hubby and I actually go through with this plan, we will have to bring toothpicks to keep our eyes open until midnight.

We do have an excuse other than our age. We have just survived the Wedding Marathon. Our daughter was married on Dec. 3 in Portland, Ore., with not one but two receptions there. The following weekend we had a reception for her here. In between the parties, we hosted our son-in-law's parents, Danish citizens who are missionaries in Zambia and had never been to Missouri.

After traveling halfway across the country for the wedding, hosting three parties, and playing tourist guides to our new Danish family members, Hubby and I are ready for our rocking chairs on New Year's Eve. We are partied out.

When I was younger and could still shimmy without my knees protesting (and the dance floor rumbling like an elephant herd was stampeding through) I always tried to talk Hubby into putting on the Ritz on New Year's Eve.

"Let's glam ourselves up and show off our disco moves," I'd plead, and once in a while he'd actually agree.

I remember on those occasions I'd usually be surprised by how quickly midnight rolled around, we were so busy channeling our inner Travolta.

A few years ago, though, I started noticing at our New Year's Eve celebrations that we had become a couple of clock watchers around 8 p.m. At first we were sneaky about it, just a couple of casual glances while pretending to pick crumbs off ourselves, that sort of thing.

It didn't matter if we were having fun or not. We could be right in the middle of a rousing game of charades with our friends and our biorhythms would start to betray us, revealing us for the senior citizens we really are.

Hubby and I would send non-verbal memos to each other, the look that said, "Seriously? We have four more hours before we can drink a toast and drag our sorry selves to bed?"

The friends we usually spend New Year's Eve with are in the same boat. Perhaps this year we can play "Prop Up the Geezer" instead of charades or Dominoes.

I really hate being a party pooper. Back when Hubby and I were young enough to party into the wee hours we didn't have the money to go to the all-inclusive celebrations that abound at hotels and banquet centers for New Year's Eve. Now that we have the money we don't have the energy.

I am devising a plan so that Hubby and I can make it to midnight without those toothpicks. It involves nap-taking, caffeine imbibing, and avoiding any coma-inducing television shows featuring a bachelor, a bachelorette or a Snookie.

Or perhaps Hubby and I should just embrace our party pooper propensity. Proclaim to all the world, "Hey, we still rock ... in chairs!"

If you're planning to party hardy this New Year's Eve, I hope you drink responsibly, drive carefully, and don't do anything that will end up on Facebook, You Tube or the local news. And you might spare a pitying thought for two oldsters who will be yawning their way into 2012.

Karen Diekamp Hitchcock of St. Charles is a medical secretary who writes a semimonthly column for the Journal. She can be reached at kdhitch1@hotmail.com