It’s Christmas Day, and my stomach is partly filled with a romantic ham sandwich made by my lovely partner, and partly with coffee and butterflies because I’m about to meet his mom for the first time! The delicious salted caramel Bailey’s that I poured generously into my coffee yesterday, has now been replaced with more anxiety-inducing caffeine. I pick up my mug and glance around the room quickly – noticing that the Bailey’s has been moved from the coffee table – perhaps for the best, I think – believing in that sentence as much as I believe in the jolly old man. I have a sip of coffee to calm my nerves and open my presents like a child who did not grow up in an immigrant household – taking in and embracing every bit of the Christmas magic.
Then reality hits (or rather the nerves, who have just been triggered by the booze-free drink). The pressure of making a memorable first impression has gotten me questioning my whole existence, running through memory lane looking for a thread of comfort to hold onto. Do parents generally like me, or is that just false memory that my brain has created as a self-defense mechanism? What if I’m not funny? What if I have nothing to say? What if…? My partner locks his arms around me in a warm hug and tells me that he doesn’t think I’ll ever run out of things to say! He also assures me that contrary to what I have come to believe about myself, I am not an acquired taste.
The thirst for validation through carefully curated content on the internet, is hard enough and now I have to do it IRL (in real life). I don’t think there’s a Michael Buble song with those exact lyrics, so I’m on my own in sorting through the clutter of emotions.
We almost miss our train because one of only 4 passengers on the streetcar pulls the emergency stop request and walks out on her own terms (I admire her courage). Our driver, who must have been given his first shift as a present on Jesus’s birthday, isn’t sure how to make the beeping go away or keep the car moving. He inserts keys and presses buttons to no avail. I watch the woman walk away and I am in awe of her dramatic, yet effortless exit. It almost feels poetic: her scarf gently blowing in the wind of a late December morning. Inside the streetcar, there’s a wave of panic which both the nervous driver and I are riding – for similar reasons I suppose: to be validated; one as an operator of heavy machinery, and the other as a potential life-long partner.
A cold bottle of New Zealand white wine is resting on my arm… reassuring me that if we get stuck on here for the rest of the day, we could still have some fun!
Moments later the streetcar begins moving and we finally make it to the train with a few minutes to spare. I fall into my chair, and immediately start taking all excessive clothing off to prevent perspiration. I’ve put on both spray and roll-on deodorant for this very important occasion – job interviews being the the only other time I’ve doubled down. The dull train ride gives me an opportunity to unwind, reflect, and self-doubt! Am I wearing too much make-up? Do we take our shoes off? Am I giving hugs, kisses or handshakes? Do I call the adults by their first name? All standard job interview questions (except the shoe one – I think that’s a Middle Eastern thing. I have to check-in with my mom before going to anyone’s house.)
“MERRY CHRISTMAS” I shout louder than necessary at my boyfriend’s uncle who has kindly picked us up at the train station.
“Do you celebrate Christmas?” His uncle asks as I struggle to get into the back seat of the 2-door car.
For the first few years that we lived in Canada I was a total Grinch. You could say it was the Jim Carey version of the beloved Dr. Seuss story: my hatred for Christmas being obnoxious and over the top. I was a total snob who knew Santa wasn’t real, but only became 100% certain of it when at 12 years old after watching WEEKS of movies about miracles and reindeer, I quietly walked down the stairs and found no tree or presents by the fireplace. Christmas celebrations began in our household a few years later when my dad bought a small plastic tree that lit up at the end of each little needle. The years that followed brought with it small presents, turkey dinners with a side of saffron rice, and a delicious curry stuffing that my mom has become famous for!
But I don’t say any of that. Instead, everything that comes out of my mouth is an inaudible, unrecognizable blur of words, where I tend to overuse the words “culture” and “religion”, and almost always end with the sentence “I guess the short answer is yes”.
Christmas Day with my boyfriend’s family is lovely and filled with scrumptious dishes with a side of saffron rice. The room is sparsely peppered with awkward silences, but mainly alive with conversations spanning decades and continents. His mom has the same delightful accent and charm that I find so endearing about my boyfriend. Her stories are familiar in a comforting way – I’ve had the chance to hear them all in a spectacular fashion from my partner over coffee, dinners, text messages, and in between paused episodes of our favorite shows over the last 9 months of dating. The conversations flow naturally between salted pistachio shells, Persian rugs, and hot apple crumble with vanilla ice cream. This dessert is doing a great job of balancing all sorts of tastes and temperatures and I hope that I have too! ‘Hoarding’ seems to be the theme of the night and I take turns calling back to it with jokes for a chuckle or two. We talk of things of great value, and of disposable trash simultaneously. We talk of handwritten notes and ancient photography. We speak of ghosts of lovers and relationships past. We break Christmas crackers and wear colorful paper crowns – and I am drunk with the magic of Christmas (and half a bottle of New Zealand white wine).
The Married Girl On Bumble 