Boxing Day. Every year I think I'm going to love it...see, all of my boys toddle off to their father's houses on Boxing Day which leaves me free. To do what I want. To relax or write or whatever. I'm sure all you moms out there with toddlers running you ragged, hopped up on candy are thinking 'Oooo...sounds divine!'
It's not. It sucks. Mostly because I commit myself to doing nothing. I stay in my red and green pyjamas all day, drinking wine and eating my way steadily through the leftovers. None of my lovely friends are available to cheer me up because they all have lovely, unfractured families. My parents are living it up in California and my brothers...well, let's not go there. Which leaves me alone and arguing with the dog outside in my slippers and robe on Boxing Day. In plain sight of the neighbours. I talk to no one. I watch Mad Men marathons on Bravo even though I've already seen all the episodes. And on commercials I try to talk myself out of eating every last bit of leftover trifle. Since I've already finished off the stuffing and peanut butter pie.
I have another glass of wine instead. Then I (maybe, possibly) drunken dial someone. He doesn't answer, thank God, and I don't leave a message but still. I'm drunken dialling in my kitchen on Boxing Day in my pyjamas and robe. Which is slightly more depressing than pyjamas on their own.
And when it gets dark out, I stare out the window and think about my life. Not the fun life I normally have with kids and friends and a job and stuff, but my Boxing Day life. The one I can't stop thinking is going to be my everyday life in the near future. No one to talk to. Kids on to better things. A dog who might hate me a little. And at least one thousand wated opportunities. It's enough to drive a girl back under the covers. Which is where I spent December 27th.
I !@#$ !@ hate Boxing Day.
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