Surviving the Holidays

One day my kindergarten teacher put some clay out for us to play with. I was thrilled until some boys started flinging it at each other. I crept outside to hide by the milk machine.

The milk machine stood just outside the classroom door. It was tall and cool and dark blue: a perfect hiding spot. I often slipped out to lean against the metal, soothed by the mechanical hum. I thought myself unnoticed, though of course my teacher knew where I was.

Imagine a child doing such a thing today. The doctors. The diagnoses. The likely medications. In my case, all were unnecessary: I was an odd child but not a troubled one. I didn’t like noisy children or rambunctious behavior; I didn’t like thrown clay. Given a few moments alone by the milk machine, I always re-entered the classroom.

I share this story apropos of the holidays, which, if you are an American, have descended in a flutter of holiday poultry. Your bird may be organically raised or chemically castrated, allowed to roam free or caged, locally provisioned or flown in from faraway places.

(More attractive than a raw bird.)

You might at this very moment be defrosting said bird, brining it, planning to deep fry it, stuffing it with a family recipe, or wishing you never bought the damned thing at all.

Then there are side dishes, the drinks, the desserts. There are last minute details and forgotten ingredients.

Finally, there are guests, some of whom may be related to you.

And this, friends, is where holidays get dicey.

Whether you are host, hostess, or guest, the holidays are no disco. No glitter ball. No cocaine in the bathroom. (Or anywhere else.) No Gloria Gaynor.

But we will survive.

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Milk machines aren’t exactly portable, but escape routes are possible, be you cook or guest. Holiday chat getting heated? Relatives getting in your hair? Need a breather? Nip out to the backyard, find a distant bedroom, or, in desperate moments, seek a car or closet. Once safely in this space, mindlessly scroll through instagram kittens or other cute baby animals, preferably of the non-human variety. The goal is to lower your blood pressure. I mean, a blowout at the holiday table is bad. A heart attack is worse. Especially if it’s yours.

(For illustrative purposes only.)

On that note: there is no pleasing some people, no matter how hard one might try. Should the displeased see fit to criticize you, who you love, who you voted for, how much you weigh, or your delicious pies, make sure you, or they, aren’t part of your holiday table in 2019. These folks are not deserving of your lovely company.

Breathe deeply. It will be okay.

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The above assumes everyone is having a rocky holiday. Which is rather sad, but in my experience more people have a difficult holiday than a pleasant one. Should you be that exceptional and fortunate person who loves the holidays and all that goes into them, more power to you. Have a bang-up time and ignore all of the above.

Please keep our Californian neighbors in your thoughts.

Thank you for being here.