I love Christmas. Always have, always will. I especially loved it from the ages of 0-12 when it didn’t matter what I looked like, what I asked my Mum and Dad for (yes Barbies at 12, AND?) or what my latest crush was on – popstars, boys, older girls, who cared?
Now I am considerably older than 12, I find Christmas has become less about what I am and more who I am – or rather, who I am with.
The answer though remains the same: no one.
‘WOT?’ the people cry, ‘No one?! Oh dear Lord, grab the gin and force it down her sorry throat. There is a girl, at a party, at CHRISTMAS, and she’s….S-I-N-G-L-E. How unfathomably tragic! How old is the poor dear? Oh yes, very old. She had such promise. How miserable she must be…’
Well, sorry to disappoint you but… I ain’t miserable. Not one bit, in fact. What is sad however, is that no one reading this will believe me. Doubters assume I’m ‘lying’, ‘pretending’, ‘saving face’ and ‘being stoic’. I mustn’t worry, they tell me, because [whispered to me in hushed tones as GOD FORBID anyone hears it] ‘my time will come…’
Pass that gin bottle now please, I feel I need it…
I’d like to get something off my chest which I ardently believe and which is probably massively taboo but care I? No! Here I go, prepare:
I am not ‘single’. I am free.
Yes. Freeeeeee. Free to do what I like (within the confines of the law) with who I like, whenever I choose to do it. Is that tragic? Is that worthy of sympathetic eyes, ‘poor single yous’ and pseudo concern? Nón.
How to survive Christmas being single has now’t to do with feeling lonely and unwanted. It’s all to do with how to ward off the hordes who try to impose upon you a feeling you just don’t feel.
And when I properly think about it, it’s actually rather insulting. Why should I feel bad about being alone? Is my company that horrendous I should dread every second of having to endure it on my own? ‘God, I’m such a bore I even bore myself, quick, find someone to save me from…me.’
Well that all seems frightfully unhealthy. For if even I am unable to abide my own company, why the hell should I expect anyone else to? It’s quite vexing really.
Furthermore if everyone was ‘taken’ at Christmas, what the f*cks the point of mistletoe? To encourage infidelity, naturally. This wintery symbol of love and promise would fast become a tainted one of evil and wickedness, made so by us women (as most things of an evil nature are our fault). Yes, without singletons, what’s the betting the Catholic church suddenly discovers a version of the Bible which states plainly: Eve not only persuaded Adam to eat the apple but she also stole a branch of mistletoe and forced herself upon the snake.
I hold Bridget Jones partially responsible for the crap us free people have to go through at this time of year. Jokes about ‘tick-tocks’ and woolly jumpers and ‘how’s my little Bridgets?’ [high-larious] all came from that novel, so notoriously brought to life by good old Renee Zellweger.
In truth I actually end up feeling sorry for taken people at Christmas. The song ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You,’ has little meaning if you already have the one you want.
Also, Christmas with a significant other is wallet-cripplingly expensive. There’s the pre-Christmas dinner (if you’re not spending Christmas together), the big present (has to be a biggie if you really love each other) and if you think it might be wedding bells, well, a stocking too. Sayonara one million pounds.
So you see, I don’t give a Christmas cracker about being single at this time of year. That others do though, is the only reason I felt the need to write this ‘In defence of the single, how to survive a Christmas, manual’. Which hasn’t really been one, for I’ve not given any sort advice really. So I’ve just now decided this is Part One. Part Two follows next week.
If you don’t have time or want to read next week, know that a single person only needs one thing to survive Christmas: ear plugs. Ear plugs to block out tick-tocking titterers and patronising pouters.
Impractical? Perhaps. Unfestive? No. For if anyone questions your logic, you’re hushing the noise of men of strife to hear
yourself think the angels sing.
By Beenie Langley