I
made it through.
That’s
what Christmases have become. Surviving.
Not
in the way the couple that I encountered on the elevator Christmas
night did. I heard them before I saw them. They’d parked their SUV
just as I was taking out some trash and my presence sent their
Chihuahua into a protective “Back off!” bark-off. “Shut up!”
the man said from behind the open car door. “I’ve just about had
enough of you.”
Yikes.
You get a little dog, you more than likely get a yapper. (I’ve had
two schnauzers. I know.) I held the elevator for the couple and the
now-quiet dog. They were loaded down with bags and bags of gifts.
“That’s quite a haul,” I said, hoping to get the man to chill
out so as not to unleash more stress on his pooch.
They
laughed. (Thank goodness.) “You don’t know what—what’s it
been?—twelve hours of family can be like!”
No.
I don’t. But I held off my
sad-sack persona
and spent
the rest of the ride up praising the “Good dog!” My attempt at
brainwashing. I wished them a good night as I exited the elevator and
the man offered a “Merry Christmas” with the
oomph of at least two
out of three Hos.
If
only I could have brainwashed myself. Christmas. Just a
normal day. Same number of hours as any other. You can do it!
Of
course it’s not the same. Except for a few Starbucks, nothing is
open. Maybe the movies were on but I couldn’t even think about
going by myself to see something seemingly drab
and depressing like “Welcome
to Marwen”
or another depiction of a queen being beheaded by her beloved sister.
(Imagine their family Christmases!)
Normally
I plan for Christmas. The main objective is to
create
time-sucking distractions. Three years ago I painted my bedroom. Two
years ago I holidayed in Venice, California where the freak show
boardwalk maintained its “normal” jittery overdrive for the
senses. Last year it was back to the paintbrush as I gave the
bathroom a new look. This year, nothing. No trip, no painting
project. (If I were handier,
I could have added a backsplash to the kitchen or at least re-aligned
the sagging pots and pans drawer below the oven. I know my limits.)
I
went down to my storage locker and retrieved a jigsaw puzzle—a
Times Square night scene with brightly colored
Neon pieces and not too much
sky. Edges first, signage next and then all those darn
yellow cabs and red buses. Yes, a day filler. And no one to jam
pieces in the wrong places or drop them under the sofa. If this were
a sick day instead of Christmas, it would have been perfect.
At
eight in the morning my closest friend in Vancouver texted to say he
and a friend were going for Chinese food for lunch. Did I want to
come? I haven’t liked Chinese food since I became a vegetarian
thirty-five years ago. There was a time when I loved sweet and sour
pork or barbecued pork; bok choy, water chestnuts and chow
mein sprouts just don’t do it for me. And something about Chinese
food on Christmas would likely make me feel gloomier. I
passed.
Somehow
I’d
managed to check out twenty-five books from the public library. My
holds all became
available at once! I
book-hopped between David Sedaris’ Calypso,
Rainbow Rowell’s Fangirl, Isherwood on Writing and
my own copy of Art & Fear by
Bayles and Orland. Voilà!
As much distraction as my reading eyes could handle.
Mid-afternoon,
I set out on a scenic seventeen-kilometer
jog, taking in water views while dodging the clumps of clueless
family walkers. Somehow the experience was less satisfying than
usual. Don’t people become semi-comatose on their sofas after the
turkey dinner anymore? The obstacle course of people only made me
more aware that I was alone.
On
Christmas Eve, I’d rushed out and bought all the ingredients for a
lasagna recipe that somehow took me six hours to make last time I
made it two decades ago. But then I remembered I’d bought a Tofurky
a couple of weeks ago, something I’d never tried. I opted for the oversized fake meat ball thingy. (It just wouldn’t make sense eating it in the
middle of January or, well, any other time.) I hoped the product was
infused with fake tryptophan too, something to induce an early sleep.
More
puzzle, more books. I finished off the night watching the last half
hour of “The Holiday”, lusting over Jude Law’s then-plentiful
head of hair, wondering how much Kate Winslet got paid to be in such
an ordinary movie and scratching my head over how Cameron Diaz ever
became a star. (Yes, it took three nights for me to sit through the
whole movie. This is why binge-watching the day away was never an
option.)
I
did it! I survived my very own on-my-own Christmas. I can tell myself
how glad I am that I didn’t have to spend twelve hours with family
and how nice it is not to have bags and bags of things I don’t need
or want. I can remind myself how much I like to be alone...on every
other day of the year, at least. But, as much as I try to deceive and
distract myself, I know something’s missing. As a kid, I loved the
holiday. The first job I ever wanted was to be an elf. (Yes, I
thought there’d be nothing greater than making toys for other kids
and having year-round candy cane breaks. I planned to sneak into the
living room, wait by the fireplace and beg Santa to add me to his
sleigh one Christmas Eve. Alas, I slept right through that night.)
The
truth is, Christmas will always be a chore for me. I’ve spent it
alone for the last fifteen years. Maybe next year I’ll finally go
to Prague or decide to get rid of the custom-ordered Belgian
wallpaper the previous owner put up in the living room.
For
now, I’ve got to come up with a New Year’s Eve plan.
3 comments:
For me it's more of a hum than a ho as well. I resolved this year to go to Dubai to visit a friend and celebrate with her - I couldn't have managed being alone both Christmas and New Year anymore.
Yes, I think I may go back to planning a trip over the holidays next year. Dubai was no doubt much more fulfilling than staying at home.
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