Christmas morning
Once again I’m spending this morning alone…
I wrote an almost identical post last year, where I ranted about spending Christmas alone, reflected on the ghosts of Christmases past, and almost accepted that I would never experience the same again (unless of course reincarnation really is a thing, in which case I’d like to come back as a little kid on Christmas morning, oblivious to the chaos that is happening in the world and believing with every hair on her head that Santa and the Fairy God Mother are real)!
Once again I’m spending Christmas morning alone, but this time with a booze-induced, sleep-deprived, caffeine-placated headache.
No, I did not go out partying last night; I went to my boyfriend’s family’s place for Christmas Eve dinner. Yes, I drank some wine and an giant glass of boozy eggnog. Yes, I did not have much dinner — meat lasagna was on the menu, at odds with my newish, red-meat-free lifestyle, so I was served yesterday’s leftover Annie’s mac and cheese. No, I’m not the least bit bitter; maybe just about as bitter as decaf coffee, which real coffee connoisseurs do not drink. Yes, there were all the fixings of a proper Christmas, such as the aforementioned boozy eggnog, an enormous, well-endowed tree, stockings made for giant’s feet dangling from the fireplace, cookies and milk for Santa and carrots for his reindeer. Yes, there was family: one generation of grandparents, one generation of parents, one generation of children, and my childless boyfriend and I (the non-generation). No, there was no extended family, no drunk uncle making inappropriate remarks, no crazy cousins or second cousins once removed, whatever that means. Yes, this intimate Christmas dinner is much preferable to the dinner of Christmas past.
Ironically, we watched National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation to remind us of what a truly chaotic family Christmas would be like in an upside down world where Chevy Chase is the unsung hero and his neighbours and boss are the barely there villains. Not quite the same as the Upside Down in Stranger Things, a modern family holiday favourite that I don’t think my boyfriend or his family would appreciate.
My bf and I took a walk with the kids to see the gigantic, blue Christmas Tree at the end of their street in the snow that decided to blanket us with a White Christmas in TO this year, a Christmas miracle in itself. Despite what some ignorant Americans might think, no we do not live in igloos (yes, I’ve really been asked this precise question!) and a White Christmas has of late made as rare of an appearance here as the elusive White Squirrel that is said to frequent Trinity Bellwoods Park in the Queen West neighbourhood.
If there can be a White Squirrel, I suppose there can be a blue Christmas Tree.
The blue light emanating from the tree reflected my mood — somber and nostalgic at this time of year. Maybe it reflects your mood as well. The Christmas blues certainly touch those who spend Christmas alone. Perhaps, like me, they mourn for their childhoods when they knew less about what was and what is, and more about what if. What if Santa were real and his precise location throughout Christmas Eve could be followed by satellite? What if you wished for something with all your heart and that wish came true? What if you believed in the magic of a White Christmas and you rose on Christmas morning to rooftops covered in piles of icing sugar? What a Christmas THAT would be. And WAS. And IS. But I’m moving ahead of what transpired last night.
After the children were all snuggled in their beds and visions of sugar plums danced in their heads or some such jazz, us adults settled down to the Christmas Movie with eggnog in our hands and heaviness in our hearts. We laughed at the bad jokes, made sarcastic remarks at the poor plot line, and sneaked knowing looks from the corners of our eyes. One of the grandparent’s generation fell asleep, head tilted back, eyes closed towards the stars. One of the parent’s generation kept one eye on the film and one eye up the stairs, vigilant for any movement from the children. The non-generation sat in the middle, caught between legitimate worlds, laughing when cued to laugh, but staying silent otherwise. Following the film, I decided to take my leave, covering myself in layers of inner wear and outer wear to brave the unlikely White Christmas that was already well underway. My bf joined me and we trudged out into the snow and the wind to the Metro station to grab a train to our respective homes. My belly gurgled with boozy eggnog and little food; his burned with excess meat and cheese. Come back tomorrow morning, we were told for more eggnog and presents and turkey and fixings.
Once again, I’m spending Christmas morning alone, but this time I appreciate this gift. I’m sipping my homemade avocado smoothie and my pretentious almond latte and reflecting on how fortunate I am to have my own Christmas-tree-absent, presents-devoid, childless space. My world may be considered the Upside Down to conventional generations, but it’s mine alone and I wouldn’t trade it for another until my next life.
