by Olga Bessarab It starts with the shrill ring of festive doom. Jolted out of your tea and biscuits, you shuffle to answer the door, cringing.You are momentarily speechless with horror. There is a mob of children surrounding you, all wearing hideous red hats. They squeal something about being joyous and thankful and embark on a rendition of Joy to the World in a ghastly key. You are sorely tempted to shut the door in their ratty little faces, but you suffer through it, expression unreadable. It could be benevolent tolerance, it could be polite indifference, it could be loathing. The ordeal is over. Flushed with fatigue and aglow with the enforced holiday spirit, you stagger back to your cold tea and biscuits, and pick up the paper with shaking hands. The nightmare continues as your eyes meet the holiday shopping sales section. Rats. Holiday shopping. You’ve completely forgotten about that. You can’t escape it this time though; you remember your parents phone call a few weeks ago. They want to dispel the image of the bitter single child that has unfortunately stuck with the relatives. You imagine the lines to the malls and shudder. Can’t you just stay home? The next morning, you find yourself lying flat on your back, willing the blankets to swallow you whole. It is warm in your den. There is sunlight stealing in through the blinds in pretty little strips. BBC News tells you it’s begun to snow. Maybe a child with big, shining, innocent eyes has built his very first snowman. Who cares? You have a wild, liberating thought. You won’t do it. You won’t go. No holiday shopping, no family gatherings, you’ll call in sick. Your fingers fumble for the phone. You switch it off in a mad rush of euphoria. Silence! You are free! You recline in your bed, ready for another nap, when again you hear the siren of the outer world. You had forgotten about the landline. “I hope you’re not going to try to call in sick.” You hear your mother’s dry, exasperated voice at the other end. The next thing you know, you are squashed amongst a mass of sweaty, irritable bodies in the MRT. You see about ten versions of yourself, all carrying various expressions of hopelessness and disgust. However, you feel too claustrophobic to shoot them looks of sympathy. Damn these people. Damn these decorations. Damn these presents. Holiday shopping is an ordeal so painful that you can only remember it in vague fragments as you lie on your living room carpet four hours later (you couldn’t make it to the bedroom from exhaustion). There were curses, shouts and lots of hands all clawing for the same packaged…something. You also remember sweat and breath. You make a mental note to take a bath once you’ve recovered some of your energy. There is one small consolation though. None of them will be coming here. This is your space, your universe of silence and calm. You try to think positively, but your mind inevitably wanders to that time when you had to attend the family gathering. There were hands that needed to be shaken (you make a mental note to pack at least two bottles of antiseptic hand wash), cheeks that needed to be kissed, children and cousins that needed to be acknowledged… And of course, let’s not forget the “Are-you-seeing-anyone-at-the-moment” questions. The “Are-you-planning-on-getting-married-anytime-soon,” “When-will-we-be-getting-our-grandchildren” questions. You made an exit to the nearest washroom after that, where you took at least fifteen minutes scrutinizing the pink peony wallpaper. You were then very unceremoniously dragged out by your mother. (Honestly, you’re an adult, you have your own life, no one understands you, everyone is so unfair!) You look up at the ceiling, wondering if your aunts have changed the toilet wallpaper to something more gender neutral. Like four leaf clovers. You think about this for a while. You also reminisce the holiday two years ago, when you actually did fall sick. You remember those weeks with fondness. True, you had to make frequent trips to the washroom, you soiled your pants twice, but you were alone. Ah, the joy of solitude! You managed to enjoy four uninterrupted hours of holiday specials (you do enjoy all that mushy stuff really, just at a respectable distance of a TV screen), finished two novels, managed to complete a rather inelegant sketch of your dusty housecat and even destroy player hackers_oneshot23 on your ps3. You bet his holiday weekend wasn’t so great after that. You snigger in spite of yourself. You lift your head from the carpet, you really should move yourself to the bedroom; it’s getting chilly. Another consolation, alcohol. It’s perfect for dulling those holiday blues. You remember being asked to watch the boiling mead in the kitchen last year. You got bored after twenty minutes and took more sips than were probably advised. You’re not sure what the fuss was about. You had a good time. Although, on hindsight, it probably wasn’t a very good idea to sing “Smack That” and wish twelve year old Lin all the best for her final trimester.
Anyhoo, buoyed by the thought of a quick escape and the availability of alcohol if things get too nasty, you find yourself almost looking forward to the holidays. “Silent night, holy night…” you hum, spirits lifted. The phone rings. Still humming, you get up from the carpet and totter to the receiver. “Hello?” You murmur pleasantly. All is calm, all is bright…. “Hi sweetie. Hope it’s not a bad time. Uncle Stan’s renovating his house so we’re holding this year’s family party at your place; I’ll come tomorrow with your Dad to get the place ready.” You slowly place the receiver back onto its stand. You walk into the kitchen and take out your largest bottle of whisky. You walk back into the living room and lie down on that same morose spot of carpet. [Joy to the World indeed!] [Looks like there’ll be no more silent night.] a
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May 2024
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