the celebration
I wandered into the house after work one day and to my delight, found my ex-boyfriend hard at work in the kitchen. I do so love it when people cook for me. In addition to the lovely smells emanating from the stove, chocolate-dipped strawberries, wine and flowers adorned the table and a crackling fire lit up the hearth.
“What’s the occasion,” I squealed, expecting to hear “I just love having you in my life” or maybe “you’re an amazing person.” What I wasn’t in any way prepared for was this:
“It’s our six-month anniversary! Did you forget?” This was said with more than a little shock and of course, an accompanying wounded look.
Aw, jeez. Another made-up holiday that I’m supposed to plan for with all of the pomp and ceremony dedicated to Christmas, a real holiday that I actually do celebrate.
I don’t mean to be unsentimental. But between half-year anniversaries, monthly anniversaries, Sweetest Day and the 1001 other made-up holidays that we’re forced to not just recognize but actually celebrate when we’re in a relationship, I’m just… not that into it.
I think it’s all really silly. Kind of a waste of time, really.
And it’s not that my family didn’t celebrate holidays and special events when I was growing up. Birthdays, Christmas, Graduations, end of summer block parties- we always had plenty of excuses for celebration. With one or two memorable exceptions.
One time, my parents were off on one of their trips and left me in the care of “the boys.” My older brothers managed to feed me and clothe me but fell sadly short in one essential area. I woke up on Easter eager to open my bedroom door, the place where the Easter Bunny always thrilled me with a basket of candy and toys.
The hallway outside my bedroom door was empty. Hmm, I thought. He’s gotten wilier this year. I trundled off to the living room, looking behind furniture, a popular hiding place for extra special gifts on Christmas Morning. Still nothing.
I quickly did a scan of the house, and then moved into the backyard to continue my search. Nothing. I asked my brothers if they had seen my basket, worried that one of them had stolen my precious booty. Puzzled, they looked at me as if I was speaking some new foreign language. Then the phone rang and my mom asked to say hi to me, presumably to see if I was still alive after some days in my brothers’ care.
“Mom,” I said crying. “The Easter Bunny didn’t leave me a basket this year!”
“Put. Your. Brother. On. The. Phone. Now.”
The mumbled no’s, I didn’t know, does she really? and uh, okays emanating from my brother told the full story: The Easter Bunny needed a helper to get the basket outside my door. Because he’s so busy, you see. That’s what I believed until my brother got off the phone and looked at me curiously. “Lisa… You still believe in the Easter Bunny?”
Not anymore I don’t.
On the night of the big six-month to-do, I quickly shot into my boyfriend’s living room and clawed through my handbag, desperately searching for something that could be considered a gift. The purse probe resulted in a car wash gift certificate (about to expire), some gum (Because I love your sweet kisses?) and something that looked suspiciously like a napkin with someone else’s phone number.
Someone, whom I’m sure, doesn’t celebrate three-week, six-week or two-month anniversaries. Sighing, I walked back into the kitchen.
“You’ll get your gift later tonight, honey.” Whistling and smiling, he dropped a kiss on my forehead and turned back to the stove.
“What’s the occasion,” I squealed, expecting to hear “I just love having you in my life” or maybe “you’re an amazing person.” What I wasn’t in any way prepared for was this:
“It’s our six-month anniversary! Did you forget?” This was said with more than a little shock and of course, an accompanying wounded look.
Aw, jeez. Another made-up holiday that I’m supposed to plan for with all of the pomp and ceremony dedicated to Christmas, a real holiday that I actually do celebrate.
I don’t mean to be unsentimental. But between half-year anniversaries, monthly anniversaries, Sweetest Day and the 1001 other made-up holidays that we’re forced to not just recognize but actually celebrate when we’re in a relationship, I’m just… not that into it.
I think it’s all really silly. Kind of a waste of time, really.
And it’s not that my family didn’t celebrate holidays and special events when I was growing up. Birthdays, Christmas, Graduations, end of summer block parties- we always had plenty of excuses for celebration. With one or two memorable exceptions.
One time, my parents were off on one of their trips and left me in the care of “the boys.” My older brothers managed to feed me and clothe me but fell sadly short in one essential area. I woke up on Easter eager to open my bedroom door, the place where the Easter Bunny always thrilled me with a basket of candy and toys.
The hallway outside my bedroom door was empty. Hmm, I thought. He’s gotten wilier this year. I trundled off to the living room, looking behind furniture, a popular hiding place for extra special gifts on Christmas Morning. Still nothing.
I quickly did a scan of the house, and then moved into the backyard to continue my search. Nothing. I asked my brothers if they had seen my basket, worried that one of them had stolen my precious booty. Puzzled, they looked at me as if I was speaking some new foreign language. Then the phone rang and my mom asked to say hi to me, presumably to see if I was still alive after some days in my brothers’ care.
“Mom,” I said crying. “The Easter Bunny didn’t leave me a basket this year!”
“Put. Your. Brother. On. The. Phone. Now.”
The mumbled no’s, I didn’t know, does she really? and uh, okays emanating from my brother told the full story: The Easter Bunny needed a helper to get the basket outside my door. Because he’s so busy, you see. That’s what I believed until my brother got off the phone and looked at me curiously. “Lisa… You still believe in the Easter Bunny?”
Not anymore I don’t.
On the night of the big six-month to-do, I quickly shot into my boyfriend’s living room and clawed through my handbag, desperately searching for something that could be considered a gift. The purse probe resulted in a car wash gift certificate (about to expire), some gum (Because I love your sweet kisses?) and something that looked suspiciously like a napkin with someone else’s phone number.
Someone, whom I’m sure, doesn’t celebrate three-week, six-week or two-month anniversaries. Sighing, I walked back into the kitchen.
“You’ll get your gift later tonight, honey.” Whistling and smiling, he dropped a kiss on my forehead and turned back to the stove.
Comments