The holidays can really suck. They’re amazing and beautiful because it’s the season of giving and a time to bake cookies and make snowmen and wear really cute winter outfits (okay, that last one’s just me, but I’m cute year round). But they’re also the loneliest time of the year. It’s strange, because you’re surrounded by friends and family and there’s love just oozing from everyone’s pores, but you feel lonely, don’t you? You want someone to make cookies with, to make snowmen with, to wear scarves with. You want someone, because everything you don’t have seems ten times worse at Christmas.
This is my paradoxical life: I wrote a post a few weeks ago detailing my satisfaction at being single. I am now writing a post about having a hard time with that very same subject.
It’s not that I want someone, persay (I can hear you shouting: SHE’S LYING!). It’s just that it is so hard to be single at this time of year. There’s snow falling every second, practically taunting me and saying, “You know you wish someone was snuggling with you right now as you watch me fall and blanket the ground like glittery frosting.”
The holidays remind me of everything I regret. I can no longer sit by the fire, bake food, go to French bakeries, see the trees lit up in the city, anything anything anything without being reminded of…well…you know. “But Cappy,” you say, “you’re being so melodramatic, please shut up.” But I can’t. It’s usually okay during the daytime, but then evening rolls around and I remember and then I wallow and then I write stupid blog posts about my stupid life, which I had promised myself I would never do.
But ah, well, what’s the point of a blog if you’re never gonna moan on a little?
The point of this post (before I went on some weird tangent about frosting and trees) is this: the holidays are lonely even though we have so much to be thankful for. 90% of the time we all feel amazing, but then something triggers a memory, like the smell of cinnamon, and WHAMO – we’re crying over our Christmas pudding.
That is so unbelieveably sad. How is it that at Christmas (when we’re supposed to be celebrating Baby Jesus and a bearded man who has cute little elves) are we wallowing? Shouldn’t we just kick ourselves in the pants and dedicate ourselves to collecting money for the poor or decorating cookies to raise awareness for gingerbread-man-scoliosis?
Things we don’t even want tempt us: that diamond ring that nobody in their right mind would care about unless it was Christmas, that cashmere scarf that you definitely cannot afford but bought anyway as a present to yourself from “Santa,” that ex-boyfriend who you only regret breaking up with once a year when you want a cuddle-buddy.
Or maybe you really do regret things and Baby Jesus is reminding you to be a good person and fix them.
Who knows? I sure don’t. Maybe another candycane will help me find reason….