Fall is upon us, and yet I can already feel the cold hand of Winter taking hold when I step outside. Bundled in my faithful black pea coat and slightly less weather-appropriate shoes, I realize how utterly futile it is to deny the truth: the holidays are fast approaching, yet I grow less enthusiastic by the hour.
To be brutally honest, I am not looking forward to Christmas parties, mistletoe, ice skates, group photos and gingerbread cookies. Parties are sad affairs; it’s intrinsic. You social butterflies among us may not realize this, but the black sheep of society know it all too well.
I don’t want to see the glittery envelope in my mailbox. You know, the one that says “Save the Date,” or “You are Cordially Invited”… And yet there is no denying that I will be horribly, dreadfully lonely on the night of said party if I do indeed refuse to turn up. Whoever the first person was to eternally mark the calendar with the Holidays was really bringing out the big guns, I tell you that.
So in weighing my options, this is the conclusion I came to:
Option 1. Attend all the Glorious, Heavenly, Otherworldy, Fancy-Shmancy Holiday Parties of the Century, hosted by someone I rarely talk to and with whom the only thing we share in common is the vicinity which we occupy, and watch as the people I used to know so well drift by like strangers, dancing and laughing while I make small talk with fellow attendees and play with the dogs.
Option 2. Don’t attend any holiday parties whatsoever, in which case I will spend the majority of my evenings in the bathtub with pumpkin spice-scented candles and sad music, absently wondering how many couples are currently kissing under the mistletoe while I shave my already-bare legs for the fiftieth time.
I suppose this is my only gripe. For the most part, I have only ever had male friends, and this holiday season I get to watch them all, the same friends who once devoted so much of their precious time and attention to me, dance in time to happy music with some woman I’ve only met a handful of times, perhaps not at all, and who blends into the background like a festively adorned chameleon as far as I’m concerned.
Case in point: One of my best friends used to come to me for anything and everything. I accepted my duty as the shoulder on which to cry without grievance, and even began to like it. I watched him go through girl after girl, never finding a relationship worth his time until one day, she came along. Since then, I’ve hardly spoken to him, so enamored by this girl he is that Facebook is the only one who will tell me that we are still in fact friends.
And here I give you Exhibit B, in which another friend and I were getting on swimmingly, though we never got as close as the aforementioned. There was even somewhat of an attraction and looking in retrospect, I don’t doubt we may have actually become a couple one day. And then, just as before, some girl showed up to steal him away from me. Of course she would. She was everything I was; the side-by-side comparison was quite astounding, actually. But she didn’t have my character, my sense of humor, my depth, and she certainly couldn’t be found blogging such pensive things (which accounts for more strikes against her than one can fathom). I say this because it’s true, not because I’m looking for a way to redeem myself. She was less than I was and he knew it; yet, he still chose to be with her.
So maybe I’m jealous. Maybe I’m slowly growing long fingernails, beady black eyes and a greenish tint to my skin. Maybe I’ll start living under a bridge and taking tolls from wayward travelers hoping to cross.
Fine, but I know I can’t be the only out there who dreads the approaching seasonal festivities with a fervor to rival the Black Plague.