I Am This Woman

(Received the “Best of Holidailies” nod. Thanks, guys!)

This entry will be about the best Christmas ever in my adult life. Part 2 will be about the best one as a child.

As for many folks, this time of year is very difficult for me, either for reasons of missing loved ones, craving the family connection we never got, or just plain flat out loneliness. One year, though, I didn’t have to think of this stuff for a single second because I was newly in love and in cohabitation with my main squeeze (let’s call him Mr.K).

We had put together an open house to beat the band on Christmas Eve. I was all dressed in my best blue silk, and he wore a red bow tie and vest… we entertained our collective family and friends for a whopping eight hours (not clearly understanding the meaning of open house, we left the window a bit TOO open). We had music, food, drink and loads of cheer. People came in waves and so we got to see everyone and laugh A LOT. (Alas, the roll of unexposed film of that Christmas got washed in the laundry. No images survived. That made me cry, but that was days later.)

I vaguely recall falling into bed around 1am, full, replete, happy and joyful. And a tad drunk.

The next morning, we were up around 8 or 9 (we had dogs who demanded attention), made coffee and then settled in to open our presents. It was our first Christmas together, and I was mindful of making memories.

His presents to me were simple: some jewelry, something silly (can’t quite remember) and I think a book of something that looked good (like a cookbook or something cartoon-y?). The gifts didn’t matter themselves… that he was giving them meant EVERYTHING to me. Here was someone in my life, suddenly, who gave a shit. He chose them with ME in mind, and also put his unique flair into it. He had practiced sneakery to hide things from me, and then been cheerfully deceptive in wrapping the gifts in larger than necessary boxes. It was awesome and I sobbed happy tears (which, as it does with most men, discombobulated him until I assured him it was awesome and happy).

I had gotten Mr. K some funny and thoughtful and awesome gifts too… we sat there and reveled in our joy and coffee and dog hair. We may have gone back to bed, but the mists of time have clouded the crystal ball on that particular point. I may have been hungover, I may not have been. I “don’t recall.”

The mist clears in time for his family to phone. They live across town the long way, and Mr. K talked to them. Then, he asked me a subtle but OH SO IMPORTANT question, which was totally lost on me: “Honey, when are we going over to my mom’s to open presents?” He was holding his hand over the phone. I said, “Open presents? We’re doing that here, now. Let’s just stay here this morning, and we’re due there for dinner, right?”

O Mistakemas Tree, O Huge Mistakemas Tree!

After he got off the phone, he was a bit crestfallen because his mom was upset. They hadn’t really communicated, and no one had communicated at all to me. The family custom was to meet early to watch the littles open prezzies at the G’parents (Mr. K’s sister’s children)… at this time, the littles were between 5 and 13. This was the K family deal, and a big one. It was expected. Previously, Mr. K had not had anyone to take around for littles opening, so he hadn’t thought it through, and just assumed… (yeah, kiss of death).

When I discovered that it was VERY important to his mom (and sisters and dad, and him for that matter), I said, “hell no, buddy boy, not so fast. Let me shower and put on a red something or other, and we are so going over there.” Communication done. A bit late, but not too late.

We hauled ass across town, with presents, booze and some kind of dessert in tow. It was part of the plan, but the timetable had been moved up considerably. Well, once I found out about this family custom, I was all over it. It was new, wholesome and fun. A house full of kids, grown-ups, food, dogs, booze, PRESENTS and surround-sound home theatre? I was ALL OVER IT.

The day progressed as expected… I had that perma-smile on my face, blushed a couple of times about comments that my lips were chapped from all the kissing, and I nearly completely lost it when Dad K handed out $50 bills to each and every one of the “kids” (age range from 42 to 19). I was one of the kids! I blubbed, bit my lip and said, “thank you.”

The K family took me in with great aplomb. (I don’t know if ever anything snarky was said about me later as the relationship became strained and eventually ended. Mr. K now has a Mrs. K and they are terrific together. I bow to their rightness as a couple.) I have seen his family in the intervening years as Mr. K and I remain friends, and they are always pleasant and kind to me.

What they never knew is that I was one of those Christmas refugees who had to find meaning in unconventional ways (literature, overindulging in chocolate and taking hikes were my traditions by the time I was 33). When faced with a whole big family complete with turkey dinner, chock-full stockings, new slippers, shiny toys and funny movies (in VHS! not stinky old beta) on Christmas Day, I just soaked it all up like the big old soft sponge that I am. That, and the following two Christmases, are my touchstone whenever I get a case of the “woe is me, Christmas sucks.”

This year, I will plan for the literature, chocolate and hike, but if the opportunity to talk to the K’s (or someone a lot like them) comes up, I’m all over it.