I’m a mean one right now, and I know why it’s so. More than any other season, save the high, hot wedding months of the summer solstice, this one is about coupling.* It’s about not being alone in the chilly months, about having someone to snuggle up next to under your grandmother’s afghan and a drunken fighting partner at your best friend’s Christmas party. Go through your calendar. The next month is fashioned entirely for those who have another in their lives. Cases in point: just how joyous can it be to decorate your Christmas tree by yourself? It isn’t. It is slightly more enjoyable with girlfriends and three liters of Pinot in tow, but hanging your ceramic memories while talking about blow jobs somehow still doesn’t cut it.
Gone to a formal holiday party alone before? I have. People love to ask you if you’ve brought a date, looking into that empty space over your shoulder as if he’ll suddenly appear, gone for mere moments when he knelt down to make out with the backs of your knees. I hate when people confirm that I’m alone at an event. They’d never ask me where my leg was if they noticed it was missing. They'd assume it was a tragic loss, just as they should the absence of a date, and then with pity they'd give me their glass of wine and spare change and ask if I wanted to do coke in the bathroom.
Let’s talk New Year’s. Now what is that time honored tradition saved for the stroke of midnight? Hmm. Do you hug your beautiful self, a product of a great year of Dr. Phil mantras and Oprah book selections? No, that’s not it. Feel up your female party host? That doesn’t sound quite right either. No, you kiss the man who’s brought you to the party, who loves how your curves look in that little black dress. You toast to the year gone by and the one about to begin, even if your morning after will be sponsored by ginger ale and Advil. If you’re single, you raise your glass uncomfortably in a far corner of the dining room, watching the others kiss, praying to the sweet baby Jebus for one of the tipsy couples to maul one another sloppily, and possibly even venture into groping, just so you’ll have something to blog about.**
* I can’t even begin to discuss baking cookies and wrapping Christmas presents, as my picturesque Thanksgiving went awfully awry, contributing to my use of the very grown-up phrase “Oh, screw you!” in my parents’ kitchen and my dread of each and every family interaction labeled Holiday. This year might be about buying Mint Milanos instead of flour and sugar and spending the 25th volunteering. Or sleeping in my tub.
** I’m closing comments so Kim will be forced to smack me in person for my melancholy. And then possibly buy me a glass of wine.
Gone to a formal holiday party alone before? I have. People love to ask you if you’ve brought a date, looking into that empty space over your shoulder as if he’ll suddenly appear, gone for mere moments when he knelt down to make out with the backs of your knees. I hate when people confirm that I’m alone at an event. They’d never ask me where my leg was if they noticed it was missing. They'd assume it was a tragic loss, just as they should the absence of a date, and then with pity they'd give me their glass of wine and spare change and ask if I wanted to do coke in the bathroom.
Let’s talk New Year’s. Now what is that time honored tradition saved for the stroke of midnight? Hmm. Do you hug your beautiful self, a product of a great year of Dr. Phil mantras and Oprah book selections? No, that’s not it. Feel up your female party host? That doesn’t sound quite right either. No, you kiss the man who’s brought you to the party, who loves how your curves look in that little black dress. You toast to the year gone by and the one about to begin, even if your morning after will be sponsored by ginger ale and Advil. If you’re single, you raise your glass uncomfortably in a far corner of the dining room, watching the others kiss, praying to the sweet baby Jebus for one of the tipsy couples to maul one another sloppily, and possibly even venture into groping, just so you’ll have something to blog about.**
* I can’t even begin to discuss baking cookies and wrapping Christmas presents, as my picturesque Thanksgiving went awfully awry, contributing to my use of the very grown-up phrase “Oh, screw you!” in my parents’ kitchen and my dread of each and every family interaction labeled Holiday. This year might be about buying Mint Milanos instead of flour and sugar and spending the 25th volunteering. Or sleeping in my tub.
** I’m closing comments so Kim will be forced to smack me in person for my melancholy. And then possibly buy me a glass of wine.
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