Rita
I have to get ready... I'll meet with a friend and
try to survive the day.
Oops. Rita, my father's widow. She's one of THEM -- unattached adults who have a problem with Christmas. We say good-bye and for a moment I wonder if I should analyze why I'm not feeling anything. Like, empathy or at least guilt about not feeling bad. I shrug and decide it's okay to feel okay. After all, I told her that I'm totally in love with Karl Lagerfeld. I told her about a recent interview and that I totally get him. She called him a crazy nut.
According to Kathy Reichs, by now my father's corpse should be.... oh, wait - he's part of a wall. His urn is. Rita brings that urn flowers. I can relate to that about as much as I can relate to someone who puts out food for the Gods. If the food doesn't vanish, then....? Maybe try a subway station. The food will disappear, I swear. Even half-smoked cigarettes will find new lungs to destroy. Magic! Beer should work, too. Too many unused brain cells on the planet as is. Let's stop the waste, shall we?
Let's face it: for a single person who feels bad this time of year, Rita could be doing worse. It must be the same mechanism that is at work in ad campaigns: a need is created people didn't know they had, it's being reinforced over and over, word of mouth makes the round, you need to keep up with the neighbors and if you can't, you're the odd person out. The poor poor product-less chick. Better get moving or at least start feeling sorry, Have-not. Watch some Christmas movies and get into the spirit prontissimo.
Like the many others who then try to drown their imaginary sorrows in alcohol. Too bad that alcohol, like fat, can't find a target. You tell the fat to hang onto your chest area, for example, but it has butter fingers. It slips and slides downward. Even though it's lighter than muscle and I'm pretty sure it would swim in milk!
Alcohol is a depressant. Smart choice. For a masochist, that is.
So, the following day they'll feel... we know this .... worse. Yes. And it will be like in 50 First Dates or Groundhog Day until in ACT III it's finally New Year's Eve. After another day of wallowing in their perceived sorrow plus the physical discomfort, they'll drag their feet back to work.
Of course they took the week off. It's imperative for single/widowed/divorced people to have too much time on their hands in week 52. Nothing ought to distract them from feeling miserable.
The ones who have mastered the art even invite people to their I'm-so-lonely pity party. Free booze. I'm pretty sure it's an industry. There's always money to be made from people's misery. Alone on Christmas? No real problems to worry about? No sucky responsibilities to shoulder or boring functions you have to attend?
Fear not, you child-free Scrooge, you DO have a problem and there's a solution. Join us at Single-No-More for $ 100 (buffet w/cheap caviar plus 1 cocktail included) and you, too, will find your soulmate or at least Mr. Right Now with a big, warm...erm... heart. And a pulse. Guaranteed!
Sign up now and we even throw in a $ 10 off coupon for next year's My-boyfriend-took-my-money-and-went-to-buy-booze-now-I'm-still-waiting... event.
Back to Rita's package, my Christmas package. Every year I amazon her some books I know she'll love (gift wrapped by amazon very nicely, she says) . So there's no running around or standing in insanely long lines at the post office for moi. It's a win-win.
In turn, she sends me a sort of CARE package which absolutely must include chocolates and homemade cookies. My faves, no less. My caloric intake reaches dimensions only known to bears or Rosie O'Donnell.
The withdrawal will take a few days. The feeling that I absolutely need to consume chocolate. I need to put my body on that rollercoaster. Sugar rush. Slump. Repeat. Gain three pounds.
Maybe next year I'll do the smarter thing: give the cookies and chocolates to the subway Gods.
