Sometimes We Ride on Your … Reindeer?

Last night I went to my first Christmas party ever.

The Facebook event was entitled “Coren’s Christmas Carousal,” with the tagline “Taking the Christ out of Christmas since 2013”. I immediately smiled when I received the notification. And, glancing at the very minimal guest list, realizing I was one of a selected few, my joy intensified. Apparently, I was one of the few worthy enough to be a part of this exclusive bunch Coren wanted to celebrate with.

The party was a blast. Coren opened the door in this obnoxiously bright red sweater, complete with the face of a black Santa, underneath which read, “BELIEVE”. “How very Paper Towns of you,” I joked as I walked in. He had somehow gotten a hold of stockings, which he taped to the window, and placed his laptop on the sill, playing a video of a crackling fireplace for added ambience. The table was decked with candy canes and red, green and silver Hershey’s Kisses, and there was even paper cutout mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.

Tal S. stood in the kitchen, leaning over her phone and a handheld mixer, trying to decipher the recipe for eggnog. “That sounds absolutely vile,” everyone said. We were almost too Jewish in our repulsion. I kidded with Tal as she folded in the egg whites and added the bourbon, “Keep it coming; the more alcohol, the easier it may be to digest.”

It was actually pretty decent. Tasted mostly like heavy cream and cinnamon. I had to use a spoon because it did not pour as I tilted the cup, and someone asked, semi-seriously: “Do I have to make a shehechiyanu?”

We played charades, ate dim sum (closest we could get to Chinese food), jumped around to Mariah Carey and attempted to reenact the Mean Girls rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock,” which was so much more obscene than we had remembered. Tal brought out gingerbread dough and we used cookie cutters to shape them, pigging out the moment they were taken from the oven (even the ones that immediately fell on the floor). It was a night of giggles and good cheer, and an overall a sense of friendship.

I thanked Coren, gave my round of hugs, and stepped smiling into the night, grateful for awesome people.

I was mulling it over today: Why had the invitation taken me by surprise? My ever-present -connect-the-dots-and-overanalyze-every-event-in-my-life function proceeded to recall two phone calls from the last days, just friends calling to catch up. I immediately resorted to thinking “hmm, they must need something”, only to discover that they really were just interested in my life. One friend even asked for my advice on a dating issue, which I wasn’t at all expecting. I was surprised by these phone calls, and I noticed it as a recurring theme: I am always baffled at my friends even hinting that they just enjoy my company, or the sound of my voice, or would think to ask for my input. That, given a choice between me and multiple other people with whom they could have a night of silliness, they might actually choose me.

Why does this puzzle me so? Is my sense of self-worth that pathetically low?

When I was going through the breakup this summer, I agonized over the fact that though both my serious relationships were with two entirely different people, the one being controlling, emotionally abusive and unstable, and the other being sweet yet sad, too absorbed in his search for himself to see my needs; there had been one common denominator: Both had military suicide attempts. I sure know how to pick ’em, don’t I?

As I sought an explanation for this perverse attraction of mine, one conclusion I came to was that maybe I had an unfulfilled need to be needed. That I kept choosing these people who had proven themselves to be far more fucked up than I, if only to feel that I would be of value to them in their lives.

I was able to trace it all back, as I was wont to do, to high school — the Dead Sea, so to speak, of my period of self-loathing. Back then, most of my every day conversations consisted of either whining about my parents or berating myself in a public contest only I was aware of of, “trust me, I am a much fouler human being than you.” I was at times plagued by an inexplicable misery, and as my bouts of depression intensified, I needed shoulders to cry on. My friends, back in high school, were absolutely outstanding in their capacity to listen, but I always felt so despicably needy. They were only there, I figured, because they felt sorry for me. If they had hours of need, I was completely unaware of them. I figured their lives were simpler, happier. And even if they did have some shitty days, I’d be the last person they’d come to for help. What good would I do them?

I am, thankfully, a far cry from who I was back then. But, I think, that fear of the one-sided friendship, in some ways, is still ingrained within me. Try as I might, I cannot completely shirk it. Some part of me, no matter how secure, will always second guess people who seem genuinely interested in having me around.

As timing would have it, Tal R. texted me a few days ago, letting me know that the memorial is this coming Wednesday evening. Two years. Jesus H. Christ.

Nava, you were, possibly, the exception to the rule. Though I allowed myself to be at my most vulnerable with you, I never felt like a burden. Our friendship was reciprocal.

I remember one occurrence that also baffled me. It was before Poland. Our teachers told us to think carefully about who we wanted to room with. This wouldn’t be the time to giggle into the night. Our days would be emotionally draining, and we should choose someone who would be suited to our needs of waking early, and possibly recapping the day with.

My memory may have warped this, but I think you approached me. “I think we should room together. We know each other better than anyone else, and you won’t give me any bullshit.”

I remember being shocked, yet grateful.

And sure enough, on that whirlwind rollercoaster of a week, it was a comfort to lug our suitcases into the same mini-room in each rinky dink euro-trashy hotel we stayed in, sighing and collapsing on the beds. Nava’d double check with me every night: “you’ll wake me up tomorrow, right?”

And I’d nod, pulling on my headphones and taking out my notebook.

One evening I was manically scribbling away, listening to music as Nava came out of the shower. I remember devising this theory with absolute certainty: Had Jerry Garcia been alive and his music known to Hitler back in the ’30s, the holocaust never would have happened. In all seriousness, if they could have just set up a sound system outside the Reichstag and blasted “Eyes of the World” for all Berlin to hear, all ideas of new world orders and final solutions would’ve just dissipated into nothingness, because how could any such evil even be fathomed when there was such beauty to behold in the world?

And I was so caught up, and Nava was already in pjs, and she rolled over in bed and said, matter of factly, “Dude. Enough for today. I’m turning off the light.”

She put me to sleep, and I woke her up, and on that journey, we were a perfect team.

I continue to ruminate on the nature of friendships. How some are impossible to replicate. How singular each relationship is. How they evolve. How delicate they can be. How we fulfill different needs for each other. How sometimes we cannot fathom our value in other peoples’ lives.