First of all, an announcement: Some of you may have noticed that we went two days without posting. We’re going on a brief hiatus here until Cammy and I can get to our respective homes. Cammy is in another hemisphere without access to the interwebs and I am at my parents’ house where the internet is slower than dial-up (it has taken me twenty minutes so far to make this post). We know you’ll miss us desperately, but try to be strong.
And now for today’s actual post…
I’m guessing our five readers are probably sick of reading my musings over being thirty years old and unmarried. I really am okay with it. I have a great life. I haven’t found the right person. And I am certain that it’s better to be single than married to the wrong person. But there are certain times I really wish I had a husband stowed away somewhere I could roll out for important occasions.
Most of said occasions involve my family and holidays. Christmas especially.
Families and family holiday celebrations tend to revolve around their youngest generation. And that’s how it should be. Christmas should be about the kids. But being the one member of my immediate family without kids, this means that I no longer matter in holiday planning. We had our family Christmas celebration on a night I had to work this year because my mother checked with everyone but me. When everyone realized I was working there was no thought of changing things—it was decided I could just go to work from our Christmas celebration. Keep in mind that my job involves tying my body in knots, so any sort of holiday culinary indulgence was off the table, so to speak.
I really don’t mind things revolving around the kids so much as I don’t understand why things revolving around the kids means my brother and sister are exempt from any work. My mother and I do all the cooking for the big holiday buffet (actually two of them since there’s one for brunch and one for dinner). My brother and sister don’t even bother offering to bring anything anymore. Keep in mind that I’m brining one mouth to the table, my sister is bringing four and my brother is bringing five. And while meals are planned around the tastes and distastes of my brother, sister, their spouses and children, my tastes are not regarded at all. This year I helped cook shrimp for those people, even though the smell of shellfish makes me want o vomit.
Then there’s the present opening ritual. My job at this point is to stand in the corner with a trash bag collecting wrapping paper (as the old maid spinster sister I open my presents at a different time when there aren’t so many people around). It’s as though we’re following some sort of nineteenth century custom where spinster aunts suddenly become part of the household staff.
Don’t get me wrong; this is just venting. I love my family and it’s always great to see them. And the upside of working post-holiday celebration is it gives me a means to escape—I love my nieces and nephews, but there’s only so long I want to be in a crowded house with five children between the ages of eleven and three.
It’s just sometimes playing the role of spinster in the family gets a bit tiresome.