My Kind of Christmas
Seeing all these Christmas pictures don’t really serve the purpose they’re meant for: filling me with joy and warmth, an eager anticipation as I rock back and forth just waiting for Christmas time to come about, so we can decorate, make cookies, open presents, etc. Instead, it just fills me with dread, leaving me only able to focus on what I can’t have, what I so desperately want. In a sense these pictures and thoughts of Christmas makes me feel a little good, because I’m anticipating what I want and thinking about it more deeply, but still, I know that I can’t have it yet, and really, it just kills me.
I want to spend Christmas with her. I want our own place. I want to save up to buy Christmas lights and our own little tree because it’s all that we could afford, and I want to set it up on the end table in the living room, and adorn it with lights and our silly ornaments that are so ridiculously un-traditional and make no sense, but that fit who we are, separately and together. I want our giant bat symbol or pokeball or what have you to rest on top, crooked, because no matter how hard either of us tried, it would just not stay straight, but it only makes the tree look better and appear more comforting, more characteristic. I want to strew colorful lights all over the apartment: in the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, even the bedroom. I want to deck the rest of the space with accumulated decorations, both purchased and homemade. I want our space to be overflowing with random Christmas all over the damn place, it would make anybody else sick.
I want to spend an entire day baking in the kitchen with her. Cookies, cupcakes, just anything. I want our Joker kitchen to turn white with flour and sugar, with residue powder dusted over the fridge and appliances; I want a huge stack of dirty, un-rinsed dishes piled in the sink as the sweets bake in the oven, but even the dishes, dripping of left-over batter, gives us those Christmas-y sensations. I want to eagerly wait in the kitchen, hoping, praying that our treats come out right, but knowing that even if they don’t, it was worth the mess, it was worth the work, because we had the most fun doing it, together.
I want to curl up on the couch beside her under a soft blanket, my body resting against hers, the only light stemming from the Christmas lights on the walls and tree, with the TV flickering before us, a Christmas movie playing, or any movie for that matter. I want a plate of what we baked sitting on both our laps, fingers brushing against one another’s every so often as we reach for another cookie, glasses of milk on either side of us that we’re drinking only because it’s the “Christmas-sy” thing to do. I want to smile with her, laugh with her at the movie and relish in the sheer enjoyment of spending those moments together. I want to feel wide awake during this time at two in the morning as we contemplate on another movie and hunger for more sweets, all while deciding we’ll get to those stack of dishes in the sink later on. I want to feel warm and comforted, safe in our apartment and sitting next to her amongst the dim, colorful lights and the new movie that’s going through the credits, my stomach in knots as I anticipate nights like this over and over again during the entire Christmas time, all the way to New Years.
I want my sister to visit us, so she can share the fun too, and do all that she’s been desperate for, for a while. I want to decorate a massive gingerbread house with the both of them, and create our own little gingerbread men characters to stand in front. I want there to be barely a gingerbread house to show because we were all too busy eating the pieces as we built the house, except for the gingerbread men, because they were far too cute, and because of the accomplishment of making them look like the characters we had wanted with the icing. I want to take so many pictures, documenting this time, and spam the ever living fuck out of our social media sites with them. I want our families to visit, and I want all of us to have fun together. I want them to see how happy we are, how great we’re doing, how accomplished we’ve become. I want to spend Christmas with all of those that we love.
I want to be the cheesy fuck that gets butterflies kissing her under a mistletoe. I want to go to bed on Christmas Eve night, anticipating Christmas day, and the gifts I’ve gotten her, and had to keep quiet about for months. I want to be unable to sleep. I want to get out of bed that morning and eagerly watch her open presents as I open mine, a steaming cup of coffee next to me while she sips on hot coco. I want to finally get to cleaning the kitchen with her again as we contemplate on whether or not we want to make more cookies, before the choice becomes obvious, and we laugh that we even had to think about it in the first place. I want to eat a Christmas dinner of doctored up mac n’ cheese and pizza with her in the living room, in front of the TV as yet another movie plays, while more treats are baking in the oven, another mess to be dealt with in the kitchen waiting. I want to be unable to stop smiling as I finally live the Christmas I so desperately want and need, all while growing even more excited due to the fact that New Years is still to come, that the decorations can stay up longer. I want to live these nights under that warm blanket, surrounded in the colorful lights, cuddled up to her for as long as the holiday lasts.
I want to enjoy Christmas again.