How to Survive Christmas when you’re the Grinch of the Family
For some, Christmas is a magical time of year. It’s all about decorating, seeing loved ones, spreading joy and cheer. Then there’s the rest of us. The ones that see Christmas a routine form of inhumane torture. The Grinches.
I literally grunted when I opened the email inviting me to this years Christmas party. The clip art presents made me want to set myself alight.
The second my local shopping centre starts hanging baubles from fishing line, I go into a cold sweat and my eyes cross over. I’m just not the Christmas type.
The “encouraged” socialising, the happy music, being forced to eat a hot meal in 40° weather. I’d rather go back to my old job of hosting children’s birthday parties and we all know how awful jacked up children on sour straps can be.
I have to accept my role as the Grinch of the family. I remember seeing The Grinch when it first came out. All the kids hated him, but I related. All the dude wanted was to be left the fuck alone and hate the world from the privacy of his own home, which I think is fair enough. But no, those Whoville satanists had to antagonise him. They had to come into his space, with their fucked up hair-dos and pointy arse kissing noses and force that Christmas spirit down his throat, just like David Jones does to us, fucking David. To this day I can never finish that film, I don't want to see his heart grow, I don’t want to see him embrace the spirit of Christmas; character development is gross and unrealistic.
However, I’m told that Christmas is apparently unavoidable, so here are my top tips for surviving Xmas for those of us who’d rather be in a cave eating hot garbage.
Put the wine down*
It feels off brand for me to encourage anyone to drink less, but in this case it’s necessary. There is no better occasion than Christmas to pound the pinot at 11.34am, but be careful. Grinches always resort to a little libation to drown out the internal screams which can end terribly. It’s all fun and games until little cousin Bethany is crying and your Grandmother is calling the priest because you screamed “I’d totally fuck Santa, I’m into a daddy. I’ll be his HO HO HO”.
This is a completely fake and hypothetical scenario by the way. (I changed the name of my cousin and actually said something about him “coming” into my chimney). I'm so naughty.
This is a classic go-to in my Christmas repertoire. It’s really easy — just disconnect your brain and let your lifeless body receive the aggressive blows of Christmas cheer. Much like I do when driving with elderly relatives, relax your spine, zone out and just hope it all ends without loosing a limb.
When Uncle Barry is talking politics/creationism/being generally racist or Aunty Janice is mocking you for still not understating what a “taxes” are, go into autopilot, zone out and play some show tunes in your head.
“Daniel, that’s not a healthy suggestion,” I hear you say. Calm down Deborah, look at that photo of me at the bottom of this page, I’m not a healthcare professional. Get off my tits.
Remember the true meaning of Christmas
It’s easy to trivialise this season and topic, especially when you’re in the pit of despair (listening to the Michael Bublé Christmas CD for the 14th time). Despite my cynicism, I encourage you to remember one important thing, the real meaning of Christmas.
There is a possibility you can get free shit, and what’s better than that!? Tough it out for the possibility of a $30 Event Cinema voucher that will deteriorate in your wallet and expire right before you actually want to see something. Also soap. You will probably get soap. That’s worth plastering a heartless smile on your face so your family can put something decent on Facebook, right?
If all else fails do what I will most likely do — throw yourself down a flight of stairs and spend Christmas Day in the emergency room scoping out hot sugar doctor daddies**. Or just pretend to be asleep. That always works. Good luck my fellow grinches.
*Ok fine, just get fucking smashed.
**Don’t throw yourself down stairs. I take no liability for you copying that shit man. Take the escalator. But I’m cool with you doing a doctor. I mean, it is the season of giving (and receiving).
Daniel is a twenty something living in Sydney. He had to grow a beard so people would stop calling him "ma’am”. When he’s not panicking about bullshit and eating saturated fats, he can be found abusing filters on @daniel_hayek