Why I hate Christmas Or “Spending Christmas in a Rural Area”

Christmas has always been about family, and when I was growing up I loved gathering around the dinner table or the Christmas tree. And then my family grew up, and the family changed.

My younger brother got married.

My younger sister got married and had a kid.

I stayed single.

Now Christmas is about juggling schedules and divided attentions. They have to spend time with their in-law families, and I have to sit around and wait for them.

Now Christmas is about bringing nuclear families together, but I’m the only one left without a nuclear family. I’m a rogue and incomplete nucleus.

Picture this: We gather around the Christmas tree to exchange gifts. My sister sits next to her husband. My brother sits next to his wife. My mother sits next to my father. My grandfather sits next to his girlfriend. I squeeze in between couples.

“We thought you might like that!” is said over and over again. “We…we…we…” “Look, honey!” my brother says as he shows his wife what he got from my parents. My grandfather leans over and hands his girlfriend his gift as they have a tiny private moment. My sister tells her husband to help their 2 year old with the packaging on one of the presents. I present gifts on my own, and I show no one what I got. Everyone else is too busy with their own nuclear families to worry about what I got. And I had no one else to help me present the gifts or choose them. I had to pick them alone and I present them alone.

At dinner, I’m the rogue piece to the puzzle – fitting in wherever is most convenient for the couples. Dinner is delicious, but then begins the breakdown as each nuclear family leaves to reconnect with other nuclear families. When everyone’s gone, it is just me and my parents. A nuclear family with one odd duck who hasn’t found a home.

The very next night is another gathering of nuclear families. I again am the odd duck out. While my family has spared me the conversation of babies and marriages, this time I’m not so lucky. A newly engaged couple is there – both are a mere 21 years old. One unofficial nuclear family shows up – an 18 year old girl with her longstanding boyfriend. They had to go to his parents’ house before they could come to this party. Everyone discusses who’s having babies and who’s getting married and who’s not getting married. I have no comment on the matter – I’m not experienced enough to know what is best for the young people of this rural area. Or rather, I am sure my opinion that 21 is a bit young for marriage wouldn’t sit well with all of the nuclear families staring back at me.

So I hate Christmas because it is the one time of the year where the urge to be in a partnership with someone else is the strongest. I, too, want to be nuclear, but mostly because if I’m not, I’ve got nowhere else to belong except on the outskirts of other nuclear families. And no one wants to live on the outskirts.  

The Rejection

I would chalk it up to drunken babble, but I don’t believe alcohol makes you say things you don’t already believe when you’re sober.

I was driving Chris home from his birthday, and he was suggesting I offer him some birthday sex. Or at least some birthday cuddles.

“That ship sailed a long time ago, son,” I said. That ship, in fact, sailed a good 7 or 8 years ago. I’ve known Chris since my freshman year of college. I had a crush on him instantly. He asked another girl out on a date. Nearly 10 years later, there’s a 4 year old kid between them and lots of custody battles. In the meantime, I’d moved Chris into “brother” zone, and I never looked back.

“I know. I know. I had my chance and I fucked it up,” he slurred.  

“Yes. And now you’re like a brother. I don’t really want to cuddle with my brother.”

Chris cringed. “Ouch. Did you really just say that?”

“I did, and I don’t feel bad about it. If I remember correctly, the version you told me was that if Sarah had said no that night, you would have asked me on that date.”

“Did I really say that? Man, I was a dick in college.”

“Yeah, so I don’t really feel guilty about turning you down tonight, even on your birthday.

He said it again. “Man, I was a dick.”

Don’t worry about it. I’m used to people telling me I'm their second choice.” I was trying to be light-hearted about it all even though always being second fiddle is wearing pretty thin.

“Hey. Don’t believe that. Would it make you feel better if I reminded you that Sarah turned out to be a bitch?”

“Um. No. And, really, I don’t care much.”

  “Well,” he said as he changed songs on his player, “I think that if I were not drunk and I asked you to go out on a date, you would not turn me down. You would be interested.”

“Uh. That’s an interesting belief.”

“Well, I feel like we have always been on the cusp of something more, but we’ve never actually crossed that path at the right time.” I almost kind of a little bit nodded my head ever so slightly, not quite sure what he was talking about, not quite sure I wanted to contradict him right then. “I’ve just never pursued anything with you because I think you’d want something serious, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!? I didn’t ask for this. In fact, I specifically didn’t want any of this conversation, or his requests for cuddles.

At this point, the conversation had veered so far into the danger zone, I’d lost all hope of salvation. I opted to say nothing because nothing was safer than the rant and anger that was nipping at the back of my lips to come out. So he kept talking, digging a grave he never even needed to grab a shovel for in the first place. “And I care so much about you, and you’re so amazing and any guy would be lucky to have you. But I don’t want to hurt you. That’s so important to me that I don’t hurt you.”

I’d hit a new low at this point. I was now being rejected after explaining that I wasn’t interested. Guys are now going out of their way to explain to me why I’m not really worth their time or effort.

“You know, I kind of know this speech by heart. The last guy who turned me down, the one you keep calling a dick because he keeps checking up on me and acting like he likes me and then turning me down, turned down my offer for a casual relationship because he was afraid I wanted something serious and that he’d hurt me. Oh, and I’m incredibly amazing and am going to make someone really happy one day.”

“But I mean it! Don’t compare me to him.”

“Yep.”

But you see,” he continued as if he wasn’t already at the 6 foot mark, “I need to focus on my little girl. I know it sounds weird, but she’s the girl I’m worried about now.”

“Chris, that’s how it should be.  Your whole world should be about your little girl, so you’re doing the right thing when you focus on her.” He was quiet for a minute. “And I’m not snuggling with you,” I said.

“Damnit.”

Why I'm Still Single

Almost exactly a year ago, I was dumped. Big time. For about six months, I was mostly devastated and saw no possible hope for the future. Ever. Slowly, I’ve grown out of that. Slowly, I’ve grown strong and independent and unafraid of the future.

But I’m still single, and that seems to confuse people.

Most people are not overwhelmed by this confusion. They say little more than, “huh.” Maybe even a “you’ll find someone one day.” Sometimes they try to figure out why I’m still single. Why no one is lining up at my door, as they say. I let them do their calculations with little interest in their results. I already know the answer. And it keeps me awake at night.

My grandfather cannot grasp my perpetual state of singledom. One day last week, I was scrubbing mouse crap off of a hardwood floor in a room that will soon be my bedroom. I’d spent the whole day sorting, trashing, recycling, re-storing elsewhere years worth of stuff. Then, once everything was off of the floor, my mother and I scrubbed the floor. Mice had, at some point, taken over the room. My brother had left bags of blue paintball pellets in the room. Apparently, paintball pellets are filled with vegetable oil. Also apparently, mice like vegetable oil. So the floor was coated in mouse urine and tiny specks of blue.

I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor to a shine when my grandfather walked into the room. “You’re really cleaning house up here!” he said.

“Yep,” I huffed between scrubs. My mom grunted a sound of agreement.

“Well, Barb and I are going out to dinner, and I wanted to see if you wanted to join.” Barb is my 88 year old grandfather’s girlfriend, by the way.

“I’m not sure,” my mom says, while she pauses for a much-needed break. “There’s pasta salad in the fridge, but we can eat that tomorrow.”

“I can’t go,” I said over my shoulder. “I’m going out tonight.”

“Oh? Are you going out with a boyfriend tonight?” my grandfather asked. I rolled my eyes, an urge I usually fight, but since my back was to him it was safe.

“No. I’m going to see some friends play in their band.”

“Well, you should get yourself a boyfriend.” My scrubbing grew more furious.

“Why, Pop-pop? Why do I need a boyfriend?”

“Because you need to be getting married and having kids!” I laughed. Loudly.

“That’s not why she needs to get a boyfriend,” my mother interjected. “It would be nice for her to have a boyfriend so she’s got someone to go to the movies with her. But she’ll get married when she gets married. There’s no rush.”

That was the end of that conversation. Though, it wasn’t the first and it won’t be the last. In the meantime, I’m left with me. Wondering why me is still single.

It’s because I’m afraid. Or possibly weary. Either way, I’ve discovered that I’ve stopped trying. Or rather, never started trying again.

The pattern in my life is a strong one: they leave me for someone else. They date me because it is convenient. They continue to date me while it is convenient. And then, when it is suddenly more convenient to date someone else, they leave me. For her. And “her” is never me.

I am never the one they choose.

This has manifested into a fear that I push the guys I date into dating me when they didn’t want to in the first place. I don’t know if this is true, and it probably isn’t, but I believe that it is true, and that’s enough to paralyze.

My latest ex-boyfriend only solidified this fear. We dated for two years. Every time we broke up, he ended up begging for me to come back. He knew about my fears, and as is his MO, he did the worst thing he could do. He dumped me for someone else and then lied about it.

I’ve, for the most part, left that break up to history. Working through it, I talked to those who were close to me or those who asked me. I’m ready to open up now. I’m ready to explore what happened and how it’s affected me. Writing is, after all, my therapy. Much cheaper than the alternatives, really.

 So I’m going to tell what is important, skipping out on minute or revealing details.

First of all, the guy before my last boyfriend was like something out of a movie. A crappy movie. He broke up with his girlfriend, started dating me, refused to end things when I offered to do so (as I sensed he wasn’t fully interested), and then proceeded to get back together with his ex-girlfriend. Without telling me. Me who had a key to his place. Me who thought it would be a good idea one early Friday morning to drop off some stuff I thought he needed to have. Me who will never be able to forget the look on his face when I walked in on them.

So I closed that chapter of my life and opened a new one with Latest Boyfriend. Our relationship started in Italy. How romantic. And what a cliché.

Ahh, well. The important part is this. In May, I moved Latest Boyfriend to New York with a quick stop in Washington D.C. for a job interview. Latest Boyfriend does not have a driver’s license, so I did all the driving. Soon after, Latest Boyfriend got the job in D.C., so I again packed my car with his stuff and moved him.

D.C., by the way, is where Latest Boyfriend’s ex girlfriend lived. The one who tortured him for a year, then dumped him and left him a depressed shell of a human. The one whom he swore he would never be so stupid to date ever again but insisted he must be friends with.

You can see where this is going, I’m sure. A month and a half after I helped him move to the city where his ex-girlfriend lived, he suddenly woke up one morning knowing that “it was over.” Yes. Suddenly.

Suddenly he “couldn’t do this” to me anymore. Suddenly, I was no longer convenient.

He swore there was no one else. He swore.

In September, a month or so later, I received an email explaining to me that now-ex Latest Boyfriend was going to take his ex-girlfriend to a fancy event, but not to worry because it was just coincidence that it was a fancy event and that it was nothing special and meant nothing to him. He emailed that to me on the day of the event. An event I didn’t even know about.

That email made me cut off all communication with him. I did it for reasons that aren’t incredibly important to this story, but aren’t probably what you’re thinking at first. What’s important is that I heard nothing about him until early January.

I was feeling better. I was feeling strong. I was feeling like it was time to let him back into my life. Try a friendship and whatnot. So I consulted a friend over the matter. The matter turned out to be that he had been dating his ex-girlfriend since early September – the fancy event that was supposedly not fancy was in fact a date. The date to win her back, to be more specific. I don’t know how he defines “special,” but I can’t imagine how that isn’t.

Wounds split open. All of them. Not just the ones he’d caused. All of them.

I’d been convenient again. Ms. Convenient for two years. Ms. Convenient who puts her whole heart into every guy who finds her true to her name and lets him take another chunk out of her ability to trust and care every time.

And here I am. Six months after the wounds were torn open again.

I want to say the wounds are healed. I don’t feel broken anymore. I feel strong. I feel independent.

I also feel lonely. But more importantly, scared. I avert my eyes when a guy looks in my direction. And I miss all evidence of any flirtation. It’s as if any guy I’m even mildly interested in suddenly has the plague.

You see, I do not want to yet again be guilty of forcing a guy into dating me. I do not want to construct my own demise again. So I can’t possibly be healed yet. But healing, I think, will not come from me being alone.

So. Why am I still single? Because I cannot control what other people do. And without a concrete “please let me take you out on a date because I like you,” I will doubt that anything is happening. If you were wondering, “please let me take you out on a date because I like you” has happened once in my life. Once. A long time ago. I wouldn’t even know how to prepare for a date, let alone actually go on one.

And so I bury myself in my career, the one thing I can control. The one thing I can pour my heart and soul into and not fear that I will become the left behind. The convenient. The in the meantime.

And so is my conundrum. I’m still broken because I’m afraid of the very thing I need to heal.  The very thing I would very much like to have. The very thing I am accidentally and pathologically avoiding instigating. Which means that my strategy to the dating game is one of waiting. Which is a terrible strategy, especially when your grandfather wants to know why you’re 27 years old and not yet married and popping out babies.

The Paradox of 'Mediocrity'

I was always raised "different" growing up. My parents, correctly, praised my intelligence and not my beauty. They did everything they could to help me understand what it means to use my gifts for the betterment of those around me. I went on to finish high school at the top (not the tip top) of my class, finish my bachelor's and gain my master's, with the possibility of getting more degrees always in the back of my mind.

As much as I know my parents were "right" to raise me the way they did, I've never felt at peace with my intelligence, or like it has done a great deal for me. It alienated me from my peers and made me stand out, always. Prime example: when I was four, I asked my mother why the 'p' was silent in pterodactyl. Two things come to mind when telling that story: 1) what four year old knows pterodactyl starts with a p, and 2) there was never any hope for me. I would never be normal.

In elementary school I was relentlessly teased and picked on, and constantly made to feel not good enough or accepted. Because of this, I learned to hide my intelligence and play it down so as not to draw attention to myself. All I ever wanted was to melt into the folds of mediocrity. All I ever wanted was to feel accepted and not like an outsider to the rest of the world.

As I've gotten older, I appreciate, to an extent, what I have in my intelligence. I understand that I have a great gift, and that I should feel lucky. I know I have much to offer. Unfortunately, at this juncture in my life, I have a job that requires a bachelor's at most. I feel, every day, that I have finally achieved my wish to melt into the folds of mediocrity. These folds aren't as welcoming or comfortable as I thought. That is, I suppose, the poetic justice of mediocrity, and the paradox it presents.

My question is, what now. What do I do now that I know these things? Do I go back and get another (useless) degree, and then not use that one? Do I incorporate things into my life that will make me be different, or less mediocre? I think the answer lies somewhere in the middle of those two things. I think I strive for greatness and an opportunity to change the world.

In all honesty, I think I have delusions of grandeur. What is this 'greatness'? As I sit here on a Friday night, drinking a beer, typing on my Mac, listening to music that was WAY too expensive to actually buy, knowing I'm going to go sleep in a warm and comfortable bed.. I wonder if I actually hear the things I'm saying. Do I actually hear myself say that my job is no fun and not satisfying? Do I actually understand the implications of what I'm saying? Do I fully understand that this world is rapidly falling apart, and I'm upset because my life isn't what I thought it would be?

Sadly, the answer is yes. Yes I do understand and know these things. So, why do I keep saying them and wondering what the hell I'm doing? Is it normal to be like this? Is it normal to wonder why you ever wanted or yearned for this type of life? I know its normal to wonder what's the point of it all, but isn't that supposed to come earlier than your late 20s? Isn't that supposed to be something you figure out before now? Or, have I just been deluding myself in thinking I would have it all figured out by now?

Welcome to the blog. I (Emily) am FUBAR for sure, but have no idea why. I have no idea why I don't stop complaining about my white girl and first world problems. When does that happen?

Soon, I hope.

Here you'll read completely normal and boring stories of my personal life. Here, you'll see what I haven't been doing with this 'intelligence' I seem to boast. Here, you'll see that I really don't get it. That I really don't understand that my problems are not actual problems at all. They're diversions I've created to keep myself in this mediocre world. These "problems" are simply my manifestation of my feelings of helplessness. These "problems" are my way of saying "Hey, guess what? Everyone else in the world wants your life. Get the fuck over it and enjoy what you have."

Let's hope I learn something from this. As I crack open another beer and go smoke another cigarette, I say, "Here's to getting my shit together. Here's to putting myself on the path of an exceptional life. Get off me, This Mediocre Life."

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