With the holidays season upon us, it seems like everywhere I look, love is in the air. Three of my friends are getting engaged, and while I couldn’t be happier for them, I can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness at the fact that I have no one. Maybe the holidays just magnify this for me. But what’s a girl to do, when she’s the only one at her work Christmas party without a partner?
You just asked a man, “What’s a girl to do?". I hope you know you’ve just opened the floodgates on that one. I’m full of suggestions; none of which I imagine you’ll find much use for. I can only tell you what this guy would do. And I’m quite aware that that’s not a one-size-fits-all. Everyone can’t just squeeze into this onesie of obvious perfection. If they could, then that would be a much more exciting Christmas party.
You’ve also veered away from the restaurant-centered nature of this column, which I both appreciate and resent. Because while it’s a breath of fresh air not having to help some sap figure out how to navigate a dining experience like it was wilderness survival, I do have to go the extra mile now to direct your question into restaurant territory and dress it up like something my readers won’t just pick at with their forks.
And let’s be real... love is like a Christmas turkey. When nicely-garnished and posted on social media, it looks like it would be amazing, and that can certainly garner a ton of “likes”. But in reality it costs too much and takes far too much energy for it turn out as dry and unappealing as it actually is on the inside. Sure, some people still develop a taste for it, but that’s just because they’re traditionalists and that’s all they’ve ever known. So they chew, and chew, and chew, and take a gulp of water, and chew, and smile at each other, nodding about how good they’re trying to pass it off as… but the truth is everyone at that table just wants to spit that dry-ass breast-meat out and scream and slam that bird into the garbage and use their newfound liberation as an excuse for a booze-fueled orgy right there on top of the red and green tablecloth while the the nativity characters trapped in the nearby snow-globe are forced to watch.
But they don’t do that, S.P. They keep smiling and nodding at each other. And you keep seeing them smile and nod and thinking that they know something that you don’t know. But they don’t. The opposite is actually true.
Do you know what sucks about eating alone at a restaurant? Nothing. Well, except for the fact that sometimes when you go to the bathroom, no one’s sitting there to keep the busser from clearing your unfinished food, but aside from that… nothing. You can order whatever you want without worrying if it’s going to give you gas, you don’t have to make small-talk when you’d rather be eating, you don’t have to LISTEN to someone else talk about their boring-as-shit day which could be played on a MOTHERFUCKING LOOP MY GOD!, you don’t have to worry about who’s going to pick up the tab, and when you’re done you don’t have to wait for anyone else to finish and sit there holding your farts in from those Brussels sprouts you ordered as a side even though you know full well what they do to you but you don’t even care cause you LOVE BRUSSELS SPROUTS MY GOD!
And you want to give that freedom up? For some dry-ass Christmas turkey?
Let me tell you about your friends. Their love is a lie. How do I know this? Because Christmas is a lie. And they’re doing the whole Christmastime engagement bit. It’s a ploy for Facebook likes. It’s the only way they can compete with their childbearing friends. Seriously. You can’t compete with babies. Unless you’re a puppy. And no such luck this time around. Though there’s always a chance you could reincarnate as one. But not if you spend this lifetime being a spoiled sport about this game we call Love. Let these women have this. And when they have babies, let them have that too. Be happy for them. Because the truth is, most people don’t really have healthy perceptions of what love is. And they’ll wake up to the realization slowly over the years. Because true love isn’t flashy and exciting. They’ll know that to be a fact when one day they wake up to find that they’re elbow deep in some shit-ridden diapers. And the really unlucky ones will know that sooner than some, when they find out their husbands are into paraphilic infantilism.
So go to that Christmas party, S.P. Get as schnockered as you possibly can and have really nasty sex in the copy room with someone you’ll definitely regret having it with. And when you see him the following week in the halls at work, hold your head high, and be proud that you don’t have to even acknowledge his existence, because yesterday is gone, and today is all there is, and you’re not marrying the guy so you’re not tied to him in any way, aside from the fact that you have to work with him every day until you quit because you should NEVER HAVE HAD SEX WITH THAT GUY MY GOD!
So what’s a girl to do, S.P.?
Whatever she damn well pleases.
Merry f’in Christmas.
Sir Jables' vast wealth of knowledge can be tapped at firstname.lastname@example.org. He can also be contacted by Morse code eye-blinking, intentionality in astral projection, or through his Ouija username: hailsatan.