For my viewing pleasure, I’ve watched the Christmas favorites, Love Actually and The Holiday, and I’m halfway through Home Alone. The rom-coms were obvious boneheaded choices to watch while alone and not just single, but hopelessly single. A part of me wanted to see if I was tough enough to handle them. I was. Barely. I turned on Home Alone to lift my spirits, since I always laughed so much at this movie when I was a kid. As an adult, though, it’s a completely different story. It’s downright depressing!
Think about it. The whole family hates this kid so much they don’t realize they’ve left him behind until they’re over the ocean on their way to a completely different continent! Meanwhile, he’s all by himself in that big, empty house, fending for himself and defending the homestead against a couple of creepy burglars. The whole time, he’s wondering if he’ll be alone forever, because he took his family for granted and wished them away.
Poor Kevin!
Poor Maura!
I honk into my fourth tissue while stopping the DVD for good. I can’t do it. I can’t make it through the rest of this miserable movie. It’s not at all funny to be home alone at Christmas. It’s tragic!
Christmas is for being with people you love, your parents and siblings and grandparents (if they’re still kickin’) and— and significant other, someone who’s glad to be with you and who put plenty of time and thought into your gifts, someone whose gifts required you to do the same, someone you can curl up with in front of a fireplace and laugh with while your family tells them funny—or delightfully cringe-worthy—stories about you and Christmases past.
It’s hard to imagine Greg and Deirdre having a day like that at the Snows’ house. From what Greg has said, D’s apple didn’t fall far from the proverbial tree. Not that he’s ever complained. More like bragged about how sensible and staid and steady they are. In other words, boring!
Colin’s holiday visit to England, on the other hand, seems to be exactly what Christmas should be. Based on the pictures he’s emailed me, it’s a Dickensian wonderland, with carolers, lights, garland, and stone churches. And snow! Some of the snapshots he sent also included people in them. There was one of him walking arm-in-arm with his mom (who looks lovely and happy to have her son with her, not fussy and haggard, like he always describes her), kicking through the powdered-sugar dusting on cobblestone streets. Another showed him wearing his goofy paper crown from his Christmas cracker and, still another, sitting by the fire in a bulky sweater, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea. It looks like he’s having an amazing time.
I should have cashed in all of that vacation time I’ll likely waste on Mondays I can’t face and invited myself along. He probably would have welcomed the company, someone to share his parents’ attention.
Unfortunately, I don’t even have a passport. That’s how lame I am.
Okay, this is ridiculous. I’m comfortable being alone with myself any other day. Why is this day different (other than the aforementioned reasons that I am now going to systematically disregard)? I don’t depend on others for my happiness. I don’t base my self-esteem on socioeconomic status or use career success as a yardstick of my worth as a member of the human race. One’s importance has nothing to do with one’s bank balance or letters after one’s name or the number of friends one has or spends time with on evenings, weekends, and holidays. I’m a happy, carefree, modern adult. It’s time to stop moping like an angsty teenager. It’s time for…
I glance at my phone.
…Chiefs football!
When I turn off the DVD player, the sights and sounds of the pre-game show greet me. While it’s not typical for there to be games on Christmas Day, the holiday falls on a Sunday this year. That sucks for the players, staff, and crew and their families, but it’s good news for bored, lonely losers like me. I’ve been looking forward to this game all day.
We win the coin toss but opt for getting the ball first after halftime, rather than now. Usually, I agree with the decision to defer, but tonight, I’d rather not give Denver, one of our biggest rivals, the chance to strike first. Plus, watching an offensive drive is more exciting, and a successful drive ending in some points would go a long way to lifting my yuletide melancholia.
After allowing some quick gains, our defense finally seems to wake up, keeping the Broncos well on their half of the field, miles from the goal line (technically, eighty yards), with a long way to go if they want to keep the ball. A couple of boneheaded offensive penalties follow, pushing them back farther still.
“Ha ha! Losers!”
While I’m still gloating about that, one of our linebackers takes out Denver’s quarterback, Pete Jay, before he can get rid of the ball.
“Sack!” I let loose in a delighted screech, followed by vigorous clapping.
That brings on the punting unit.
I sit on the edge of the couch and watch our punt returner signal for a fair catch before I rush into the kitchen to mix myself another glass of ’nog during the commercial break.
Returning to my perch, ready to root for my team, I say as the break ends, “All right, guys. Let’s beat some Bronco butt! You can clinch the Division if you win this one.” You know, in case they don’t already know that. And can hear me.
After a long swallow, I watch over the rim of my cup while Jet trots onto the field. Now, that’s what I’m talking about. Mr. Tight End, who? There’s a new tight end in town, ladies. Licking my
