I just passed an acapella group in front of Neiman’s in coordinated red and green velvet pants and I didn’t find myself using strangers as human shields to avoid accidentally making eye contact with the token beatboxing black guy who went to an Ivy League and exclusively dates white women now (it’s always that one) or turning up the volume on my airpods so I wouldn’t have to listen to them overenthusiastically enunciate a song I loved up until that point all while snapping in clone like synchronization.

The holidays are finally here!

It’s my absolute favorite time of year but there are pros and cons that come with the season of tv specials about love stories that happen in the span of a week:

Pro: Holiday Outfits. I am the physical embodiment of yuletide joy all season long. Most importantly, I can shamelessly wear glitter in public without looking like a vacationing midwest divorcee ready for a night on the town in Santo Domingo. I’m with you on the body glitter, but did we really need to couple it with cornrows, Patricia?

Con: Other Holidays. I’m looking at you Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and Winter Solstice. It’s Christmas, ok? It’s just so tacky how other cultures are trying to commandeer on Christmas’s bliss. Of all the months, you really had to pick December to have your celebrations too? We could have celebrated Easter in May but we decided to do it in April so Mexicans could have the month for Cinco de Mayo. Have some respect.

Pro: Holiday Parties. This is when you find out where you stand in social circles and set the tone for the next year of gatherings. My calendar is booked with five to six holiday parties every weekend and at least three during the week this year. I’m an amazing party guest. Three years ago, Nicola brought a vegan cranberry crumble cake to Clara’s Eve of Christmas Eve Party. Why she thought anyone would want to even put a cake that was made with cashew milk, which as far as I know cashews don’t lactate, is beyond me. She hasn’t been invited to a party since that disgusting lapse in judgment. Rumor has it she’s considering a move to Portland where vegans run rampant and that sort of lunacy is accepted. I wish her well.

Con: Family Time. I have carefully avoided my DNA donors and their kin for months and frankly, can only stomach to see most of them during our season of faux joy. We listen to All I Want for Christmas is You to keep from stabbing ourselves in the eye with a sharpened candy cane while listening to Uncle Louis talk in excruciating detail about the hot piece from the Philippines he’s banging even though there’s a 35 year age gap and she’s most certainly here for a green card and his money. Luckily, I can cram those holiday familial moments in all at once and then forget about these 99% 23andme.com matches until next year. Or a funeral. Whichever comes first.

I’ll admit I’m no angel, which is why I love that the holidays offer me a chance to wipe the slate clean for all of my naughty list behavior (Josie, I’m so sorry I uploaded that video of you twerking on that cute guy at the club when your tampon came out and you bled all over his crotch causing him to get so scared that he fainted and made you lose your balance so you both ended up in a sweaty pile of discarded vodka and uterine lining on the dance floor while Pony bumped in the background. And that it got picked up. And remixed. But it was really funny. You can’t be mad forever, girl.).

Thus, as retribution for my shitty antics throughout the year, I will be donating to charity. Also, on the off chance that Santa is in fact real, I just want to solidify my spot on the nice list. I mean, he’s totally not, but like, just in case…

I have so so so so so so very much. Like, there are clothes in my closet I literally have not touched in over 5 years and now they’re out of season and I have to wait for them to become vintage. I throw out tons of food every week. Sometimes, I go to the store and buy things I have no intention of ever eating because I hate looking at an empty fridge. It just feels so Little Orphan Annie, but before Uncle Warbucks and the bath she so desperately needed.

I really hit the life jackpot. Usually, it doesn’t even phase me because I’m too busy planning a Wednesday morning brunch or practicing my surprised face for when my boyfriend-in-my-head, Jason Momoa, finally proposes. Then, the holidays roll around and as I get all snuggled up in my 800 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets at 5pm because of seasonal depression, I suddenly remember there are those that are not as blessed and I feel even worse. Everyone deserves to get in bed at 5pm and feel like dying because it’s unclear if they’ll ever see the sun again. Not because they have not eaten in two days and have to take a shit in between taxi cabs at 6 in the morning. It’s the holidays for Christ Sake!

I like to feel good about myself and mask it under the guise of wanting to help others. For appearances. Every year, I find a charity that’s accepting shitty donations that no one in their right mind would actually want but poor people who are so poor they’re happy to receive a salmonella infested turkey and clothes that are too ugly to even be taken seriously anymore.

I understand they’re broke all year long. The thing is, my social calendar is extremely busy every season but the holidays. I just donated during the holidays so they shouldn’t expect anything from me the first few months of the year. Spring is when I realize I’m a complete porker and my head is too clouded from only eating iceberg lettuce, tofu nuggets, and flat tummy tea splashed with vodka. Summer is out of the question because I’m traveling and on my yearly Eat, Pray, Love journey. Fall is when I’m coming down from my amazing summer, plus it’s practically the holidays and I don’t want to overkill it. They waited all year so they can wait a few more weeks. There’s really no other time I can volunteer but the holidays!

Sometimes, if I’m feeling particularly out of touch and want to be brought down to a more humanizing level, I’ll head into the trenches and volunteer my time at a soup kitchen. It’s usually a pretty good scene around this time. I’ll don the plastic sanitary apron, gloves, and hair net that overheat me so much they make me sweat directly into the food. Honestly, the food is so bland that my sweat is probably a welcomed dash of Lawry’s. Season’s seasonings, baby.

Plus, I want it to look like I’m really working hard when the photographer comes around to document our seasonal giving. You know, it’s really not clear if I’m wearing this elementary school cafeteria garb to protect the poor from catching my wealthy germs or to protect me from the botulism that is definitely in the green beans we dumped from the cans. I guess it doesn’t really matter in the season of giving.

But at the end of the day, it’s the fuzzies I get when I see the homeless with a meal they will likely suffer extreme stomach pains from because it’s the first and only warm, decently prepared meal they have had in weeks that hasn’t first been handled by a raccoon at the bottom of a dumpster.

It’s the heartwarming I get when they smile to thank me for what is either creamed corn or newborn acid reflux and I remember it doesn’t matter because they lack the teeth to chew it and the crafted palette to even differentiate.

It’s the bliss I get when I’m driving home that night with the heat blazing so high in my car that I have to remove my winter sweater and am sitting with a beautifully embroidered holiday tank top and pass a homeless I’ve just served. Our eyes meet in a brief moment of recognition, thankfulness, and heartfelt human connection. I lock my doors, run a red light in my haste to not be forced into giving him spare change, and wait for gentrification to handle this neighborhood so I can return in a few years with my girlfriends to talk about Josie over an Americano.

Happy Holidays!