Some kind of cruel culmination of finally beginning to sober up after a week of festive celebrations, involving stupid amounts of mulled wine, and mixing your drinks like its god damn Christmas, and the realisation that you no longer have an excuse to live like you’re on death’s door – fuck it, I’ll spend every penny I own, its Christmas after all. Well no my friend, it isn’t Christmas anymore, back to the nine to five, back to sensible spending, and you’d have better put that bottle of spiced rum back on top of the fridge where it belongs.
Sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the wall, the memories of just 24 hours earlier seem blurred and confusing. Somebody suggests turkey sandwiches and your stomach turns – there is no way in hell you’re eating again for at least a week. Your head hurts, but you’re not sure you could even manage the walk to the kitchen for painkillers, and you probably wouldn’t be able to swallow them anyway. Self-loathing soon sets in as you think about all of the calories you’ve consumed, all of the lbs you’ve gained and £s you’ve lost. You’ve gone from being socialite of the year to an agoraphobe who would much rather be curled up in a ball of pity than around any so-called loved one. Unfortunately, even if you do manage to settle into the foetal position, you’re not going to be able to sleep, because your mind is still too awake trying to make sense of what the fuck is going on now? You’re also hideously aware of the aftermath that awaits you once you’ve pulled yourself out of this emotional coma, the mess, the overdraft, secretly returning all of the shit that you don’t like, and of course making plans for New Year – bearing in mind the thought of being in anything but your own company right now makes you want to vomit and cry in unison.
Hanging out with your family is cool and everything, but it’s not natural. You’ll find yourselves all sitting awkwardly downstairs together, doing your own thing. Of course it would be much easier, and more pleasant for you all to have your own spaces in separate rooms or separate continents as far as you’re all secretly concerned, but nobody wants to make the first move and look like the black sheep. You’ve set the family-fun barrier too high with your jovial board games and hours of wii tournaments, and now everybody is anxiously waiting to make their excuses when charades is suggested. Maybe get that rum back down, this is too painful, perhaps we could spread out the cheer for a couple more days?
Another excellent game I tend to accidentally play with myself during my Christmas come-down is how much money am I going to have to spend buying the things I asked for and didn’t get? Don’t get me wrong family and friends, I like (almost) everything you got me, but when I highlighted and continued to point out that one thing that I really actually needed, you should have taken the fucking hint ok? Now I’m going to have to magic some cash out of thin air to buy it for myself, while wearing the fourteen pairs of pyjamas that I got for a laugh because I mentioned that I don’t need any pyjamas this year. Groan, back to bed, I haven’t quite finished feeling ridiculously sorry for myself yet.
After finally managing to pull yourself together for long enough to get a cup of tea inside of you, you’ll realise that the world really isn’t that bad, and in another eleven months everything will be festive dreams and Rudolf rainbows again. I’m not saying the torment is over, be prepared for relapses – you may find yourself sat alone in a dark room humming “stop the cavalry” softly weeping into your retired Christmas jumper a couple of times in the next few weeks, but you’ll make it through - until next year when the whole ordeal starts over, Merry Fucking Christmas.
Tasha
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