Because that's what it is: a one-day or night event surrounded by people you have literally nothing in common with. I call these people family. And once a year, I'm forced to go through an obstacle course of highs and lows. And it's a bloodbath.
To be truthful, I'm sure many of them feel the same way about me--there's no common ground, no common anything, sans the same last name. And we're all probably secretly embarrassed of each other.
That being said, here's my 5-point single gal's perception of Christmas with (a sometimes insufferable) family:
1) YOUR KIDS ARE NOT THAT CUTE.
Sure, they giggle, They squeal. They are tiny. That doesn't mean they aren't tiny monsters. My cousin Regina's kids, for example, have a strange ass fixation. I mean, three Christmases in a row, my ass is grabbed over a hundred times by tiny, sticky hands. Because apparently children are natural molesters. And sticky.
I look to my cousin for assistance; she smiles and shrugs her shoulders at my horror.
"It's good for you to experience this," she says condescendingly. "You're getting older and may never have a family of your own."
Cue the second bottle of wine I open.
2) THE PISS BATTLE
All my cousins are insanely successful. They all have fancy job titles, fancy salaries, and the fact that I'm in my 30s and still living in an apartment is probably adjacent to living in a Third World to them.
But what's even more amazing is how they each try to one-up the other.
"We just had the most breathtaking vacation in Morocco," my cousin Regina purrs (while sipping a Pinot Noir that probably cost more than a week's worth of groceries). "You haven't vacationed until you've experienced Casablanca in person."
"Oh, that's nothing," says my equally well-traveled cousin Lyle. "A week in Tuscany and we never ate so well. We had a full-time maid and butler in our house. It was amazing. Nothing will ever top it."
Do you ever notice that when people are one-upping one another, they smile wider and wider? I think that's symbolic of an angry middle finger of envy and fury. I'll gladly stick to my cable and cocoa for now.
3) THE DRINK POLICE
On average, I'll consume about 2.5 bottles of wine at this hellish holiday event. And about every hour, my pushy aunt will sidle up nearby and mutter (just loud enough for me to hear), "That's my greatest fear--an alcoholic child."
I don't let this get me down. Her Botox-sheened face basically knocks any credibility that she ever had into dust. I just drink on knowing that I'm getting ever closer to that glorious cab ride home.
4) AN ORGANIC VEGAN COOKIE ISN'T JUST AN ORGANIC VEGAN COOKIE
Year after year, one of Regina's daughters will whine incessantly for a cookie before dinner, which her mother and father both vehemently deny her.
"Cookies lead to obesity," Regina lectures.
"Even one cookie?" I ask while popping open the third bottle of wine.
"It starts with a single cookie," she says ominously.
I don't understand this. Regina and her polished hubs both sport glorious spray tans and wrinkle-less foreheads, courtesy of said-Botox. The type of cookie served is an organic, vegan shit-puck anyway. Isn't that basically a vegetable?
PS: I'm pretty sure any cookie is less toxic than Botox...
And 5) MIXING MONEY AND JESUS
A small group of the earlier mentioned cute children will say the Lord's prayer before dinner is served. Respectfully, I even put my wine glass down and bow my head, like everyone else. And for one moment, silence quells all the tension that's been building up for the last half hour (yes, it's only been a half hour).
Then, as soon as that whispered amen is completed, my uncle will launch into his latest money-making scheme. Most of the time, it sounds like a Ponzi scheme, but he's managed to stay out of jail so far. Then his son will talk about his newest job promotion and how busy and rich is he. Why, he's so busy with his success he almost couldn't make it to dinner! Bless him.
Let's cut the shit--talking about money during Christmas dinner is like inviting Herod to your baby's baptism. It's just inappropriate.
Mercifully, the evening will settle down, and we'll all begin our not-so-tearful goodbyes.
I'll hope that next year will be better, but in my heart I know better. Each year, it's a marathon to make it to January--the magical month where my self-esteem returns, along with logical expectations.
Lost order is restored...until Valentine's Day.
