So, the last time we spoke, I was settling in very well indeed to the being single life. I was dating again, relishing not having anyone else to worry about, and being little miss social butterfly. I thought I’d well and truly washed that man right out of my shiny, fabulous bonce.
So far, so good, right? WRONG.
Week 7 post break up takes me back to 2 weeks before Christmas. It’s a time of year that I, like many of us, absolutely ADORE. I basically LIVE for Christmas. (and cheese, cake, and wine of course, which is even better as you get all 3 by the bucketload during the festive season. Just hold the Wensleydale & Cranberry – bleurgh.)
Last year, all thoughts of Christmas were, unfortunately, tinged with sadness. The ex and I were supposed to be spending the day with his family, whom I was very fond of. Of course, now, that wasn’t happening. Being a gung-ho type, I’d invited my Mum & sister to London to come and stay with me for the big day. Yeah, SCREW YOU EX BOYFRIEEEEENND. Or something.
However, the more I thought about it, the more it filled me with dread. The more pressure I put on myself to be jolly, the more anxious I became. ‘The flat isn’t big enough’, ‘How can I keep us entertained?’, and ‘How on earth can I do this by myself?’, were all questions running around my head. Of course, the real reason was, I felt about as festive as a post Turkey dinner fart.
Usually I’m super organised. I buy new decorations for my stupidly large real tree EVERY year, homemade mince pies and piccalilli fill my (admittedly tiny) kitchen with the smell of spices & erm…vinegar, and let’s put it this way – I SHOULD BE THE NINTH FRICKING REINDEER.
Not in 2015. It was the end of the 2nd week of December and all of a sudden I had to deal with CHRISTMAS. It became unavoidable. It was coming. EVERYWHERE. Twinkly lights adorned the streets of London, there was the warming waft of overpriced Mulled Wine in the air, excitable children whizzing around like they’d had ALL THE BLUE SMARTIES, drunken suit wearing tube passengers with rosy cheeks aglow, festive hats and incoming hangovers, and couples engaging in extra soppy PDA’s because, DURRRH, Christmas! The festive spirit was well and truly happening.
I decided to get over myself. Stop being a Scrooge. Get involved. So Matilda and I, (my battered, wonderful 12 year old yellow Mini) drove off to the Christmas Tree farm. After much deliberation and careful consideration, there she was – a splendid 7ft Nordic fir! I somehow crammed it in the Mini and headed home.
My darling, lovely friend Tim came to meet me and we positioned the tree, then decided to go off for a few (festive, natch) Gins with a couple of other friends. That soon turned into a few bottles of Prosecco too, and Mulled Wine, just because. By the time I was home and ready to decorate the tree, I was feeling VERY festive (and utterly pissed) indeed. The Christmas music went on, and I set about decorating the best tree EVER. It took hours, and the best part of another bottle of Gin before I’d finished.
Yep. I’d got so carried away with my faux-festiveness that by the time I got to bed it was 3am. And there was a big family pre-Christmas lunch the next day (organised so we could see the family members who wouldn’t be around on the big day itself). WELL DONE HOROBIN.
Of course, the next morning I felt HORRIFIC. Not only was there an absolute bastard of a hangover to contend with, I also felt thoroughly depressed. They don’t call Gin Mothers’ Ruin for nothing. My faux-festiveness had been replaced by stark reality. I was going to be single at Christmas and no matter how much of a brave face I put on, it SUCKED.
Then I did something which still makes me feel terrible. I cancelled on my family. Told my brother I had food poisoning. Then felt bad and text my Mum, told her I’d lied and then the truth. Even though I regret lying to get out of it, the last thing I wanted to do was be the miserable family member bringing everyone down on a day when we should’ve been celebrating. The fact of the matter was, a self pity party for one was needed. Time alone to reflect, be sad and get everything out of my system. The rest of the day was spent doing that. Tears, TV and a Papa Johns. Self therapy and bit of cheese. (and a side of chicken, obvs)
Thankfully, my family being the wonderful people they are, understood my predicament. ‘We’re just worried about YOU’ said my Mum. My sister also sent messages of support. My brothers girlfriend sent a gorgeous picture of my nephew, Oscar. Everyone was lovely. That, in itself, made me realise that while I may have been single, I wasn’t, by ANY stretch of the imagination, alone. Family is everything.
This was the final time I cried about the end of my relationship. I realised that he wasn’t worth my tears, my worry, or worthy of my precious time any more. I had a wonderful family, friends, a job I adore, my fur babies (the kittehs) and guess what? CHRISTMAS WAS COMING!!!
WHIP OUT YOUR BAUBLES AND CALL ME BLITZEN. I’M READY.
Until next time….