Celebrating solo

Getting through the holidays sans significant other

by Rachel O'Malley

Every holiday season, my immediate family gets together with the extended family. Dinners, gatherings, the whole deal. And at some point during the usual conversations -- the "How's school?" or the postgraduate "How's work?" or, in some cases, the "How's the job search going?" -- someone (most likely my cousin Carol) turns to me at a peaceful moment when everyone's pouring gravy on their turkey and asks, "So, where's the boyfriend?" I usually bumble for an answer, saying things like "Good question," or "No luck," or, if I've had a glass of wine, "Whatever." Of course, I'm usually sitting across the table from my cute, blond, well-adjusted, so-many-friends-she-can't-keep-track cousin, whose boyfriend (the captain of the football team, I think) will be stopping by later. Still, I understand the inquiry -- although it's not exactly my favorite moment in the familial spotlight -- because I know people are curious.

But last year when the topic arose, my grandmother, whom I rely on as one of my biggest fans, jokingly said, "Oh, Rachel, what are we going to do with you?" If this had happened during a July cookout or Easter dinner, I would have rolled my eyes and agreed. I would have asked for suggestions. But because the query came during the holiday season with the lights and the velvet and the flurry of snow, I thought to myself in a moment of panic: Christ, what are we going to do with me?

I've always understood the reasoning behind approaching New Year's Eve and Valentine's Day with caution if you're on your own. No date, no flowers, no candy -- in the middle of a red-splattered, touchy-feely holiday -- can make you feel like Home Alone 2. But now Christmas is working its way up there on the "Shouldn't I be sending someone a mushy card/cutesy tie?" list of holidays.

Then I came across "The Single Girl's Holiday Survival Guide" in Cosmo (hey, cut me some slack). This road map to coupledom offers tidbits of wisdom on such solutions as "flirting outrageously . . . laughing and making lively conversation with everyone -- the hostess, the person across the table from you, her kid" (her kid?) and going on a singles cruise (can you say sketchy?). If this is the answer, I can only wonder if the holidays will, indeed, make me bitter/depressed/pathetic and, if so, how I can avoid these unfortunate mental states. How can I rise above -- or at least kind of lope through?

I could go to holiday parties with a watchful eye (like I don't already), or overdo it with the mistletoe thing (but that is recognizably pathetic). I could hook up with someone I don't like (or who doesn't like me). But romantic Christmas-tree lights or no, that starts to wear you down after a while. I could break up all my happy couple friends by spreading rumors, and set fire to the "Love" section in a Hallmark store. I could live vicariously through romantic movies (but I think I've already started doing that with Party of Five) -- which usually entails going to the movies alone. And to be honest, I'll probably spend a lot of time thinking about doing that stuff while I'm shopping with my roommate for a stuffed animal for her boyfriend or choking back a martini at a holiday party.

The thinking might lead me to start chanting to myself, "Appreciate what you've got -- I'm okay, you're okay," but I have a nervous habit of blurting out whatever's running laps through my mind. I obviously don't want people adding the phrase with possible mental issues to the end of a descriptive single. But without a mantra, it's tricky to appreciate what you've got when you know something's missing. I don't plan on feeling like a much, ahem, sturdier Ally McBeal, walking around the well-decorated city streets with a look of angst on my face and lonesome music blaring on my Walkman, almost getting run over by a family Volvo wagon -- the back seat piled high with gifts. And I do plan on making the most of things, yadda-yadda-ya, but I see no need to prove too much to myself. In fact, I've got a plan for avoiding this year's holiday inquisition 'round the family table.

The apartment that I moved into September 1 is ideally located, with hardwood floors, good-size bedrooms, and rats. My mother, of course, practically sent out fliers about the rodent situation. Any time I set foot near my parents' home, neighbors who haven't spoken to me since the third grade appear out of an attic window and energetically yell across the street, "How are your pets?" before breaking into cackles. It's almost got a magic quality to it, that word rats. People -- acquaintances, aunts, best friends, the UPS guy -- lose all memory of who you are or what your other troubles may be when you utter that one-syllable noun. You're no longer poor little so-and-so who's not lucky with the fellas (that's my grandmother again). You're a girl with rats. Instead of thinking "What are we going to do with her?" they're stunned into a confused silence. Dealing with the holidays on my own? Please -- this holiday season in my new apartment, I wish I were alone.

Regardless of how much pressure her grandmother puts on her this year, Rachel O'Malley does not plan to flirt outrageously with anyone's children this holiday season.