I’m still perplexed with my seemingly Pavlovian devotion to holiday traditions. Yesterday marked my 21st annual observance of Beaujolais Day (minus two years where I just wasn’t in the mood), which marks the kickoff of a season of pointless traditions and rituals for me. Yeah, I know Halloween is technically the first, but that holiday, like Valentines’ at the other end, is really just a random party night that either happens or doesn’t. Half the time I participate in those; half the time I ignore them. I rarely regret it either way. By the way, whether you’re an observer or not / single or not, be sure to lock down Valentine’s eve this year. I have something quite unique planned for that night. Judging from my meticulously analyzed forecast for this holiday season, it will mark the end of what is no doubt going to be a three month manically depressive funk during which even *I* won’t want to spend time with me, so I’ll probably spare most of you the same fate.
Back to the point, I view Beaujolais Day as the French Thanksgiving, and generally take the evening to sample some “really fresh wine” (no more of that old stuff) and toast my French ancestors (who were winemakers from the other side of the country from Beaujolais, but lets not pick nits). Okay, I know it’s really nothing more than a marketing ploy to get Americans thinking about cheap French wine the week before Thanksgiving, but then aren’t most holidays usurped by commercialism if you let yourself think of them that way. So every year I make a pilgrimage down to the Chatterbox, spend $22 for a $7 bottle of French wine, which is then paired with a selection of Jamaican patties and your choice of Swiss or Wisconsin cheddar cheese (#authenticityfail). I know, I’m spoiled there, as my first introduction to Beaujolais day was at a party held by a very nice gay couple who introduced me to brie, camembert, foie gras, and a variety of crudités. At least the jazz this year was authentic 1920’s French, so you get the proper ambience, which is the main reason I go to this thing anyway.
So, pretty much, after dropping far too much money on Beaujolais Day, the rest of the holiday season kinda sucks. Okay, MAYBE I’ll look forward to watching the Macy’s parade with the wee one next Thursday, and HOPEFULLY among my many illusionary relationships (affectionately named “Fake Wife,” “Imaginary Girlfriend,” “Future Ex-Wife,” and “Midlife Crisis II” – the Four Horsewomen of the Apocalypse) I will be able to scrapt together platoic dates for the office Christmas party, the neighborhood association social, the all-important “ball-droppey moment” (not mine, the big one in Times Square) and the myriad other “coupley things” that seem to crop up endlessly between now and the end of the year. Honestly, most of the time I relish my bachelorhood, as it provides an endless source of amusement for my friends and a veritable wellspring of blogging material, but around this time of year, it fucking sucks. So if you see me acting all morose and/or distant (sorry in advance for that), just smack me and remind me that Spring is coming soon, at which point you’ll all wish you were me again.
