A Christmas for one, please
I never used to talk to myself, but after a few stabs at small talk—weather, bad haircuts, the existence of God, and if so, which one—I found myself to be a fairly interesting person, and truly wished I had met myself earlier in life, so we could have experienced it together. Unfortunately, myself and I find ourselves at Christmas time; a time in which we, as a people, huddle together into small clusters to unbox a dented UPS package of life’s simple pleasures. Fortunately, there are ways to cope.
Christmas has earned the moniker, “the happiest time of the year,” but to some, it can get a little too happy. Recluses, like myself, handle Christmas like Bruce Wayne handled his fear of bats: instead of simply overcoming our fear, we become the fear, and wear the costume of hospitality. In our utility belt, so to speak, there’s the crooked smile, the distant, “one up, one down” handshake and the always effective combination of raising one’s eyebrows while simultaneously nodding one’s head. Then, to shovel some more coal into this analogy’s engine, we fall back into the shadows until called upon once more. This is how notorious hermit Daniel Day Lewis became such a great actor.
If human contact wasn’t enough, Christmas takes the one joy every hermit finds in life, the television, and bastardizes it with kitschy tales of love and forgiveness, and game after game of man-children running into each other. I, for one, think football would be greatly improved if each team’s mascot is let loose upon the field to wreak havoc (falcons would go for the eyes, 49ers would hurl their pickaxe at players, jets would randomly kamikaze onto the field; it would be a good ol’ time).
And every so often, the eremite—yes, I own a thesaurus—comes into contact with its arch-nemesis: the people-person. To this day, there is no sure-fire formula for how a loner is to handle such a situation. Some fake a brain aneurism, some start making shapes with their hands and play deaf, and others simply accept their fate and fall on their sword. I, for one, take the coward’s approach and run—everybody knows the coward’s the smartest guy on the battlefield.
Despite my apparent “Scroogeist” sympathies, Christmas is my favorite holiday. When I see pecan pie, my heart grows three sizes. There are actually a chosen few who I actually enjoy seeing and interacting with. Furthermore, I love “It’s A Wonderful Life,” which is possibly the corniest movie ever made. I am simply against large groups of people—the walkers in “The Walking Dead” would terrify me without the decaying skin—and Christmas is a lighting rod for such a thing.
A very wise French person—now very dead, but still French—once said, “[a]ll of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” Very wise and very dead but still French person, I wholeheartedly agree.
