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It sucks spending the holidays alone.

It sucks spending birthdays alone.

I was born with the misfortune of a December birthday, a mid-December birthday, smack-dab-right-up-against the holidays and New Year’s Eve and all that jazz. Holidays parties, gifts, trips, flannel pajamas, hot cocoa, breakfast in bed. Everything. It’s just so much more delightful with two.

And during the holidays, it seems like everyone is a two. Everyone seems to have dates and companions and gushy relationships and instagram posts and stocking stuffers and surprise gifts and snowy cabins. And everyone is a two.

Even though the rational, pragmatic part of your brain may remind you that there are divorcees and widows and asexual non-daters running around, it is very easy to feel as though you are the only single person alive during the holidays.

And being single on your birthday, when you’re turning 37 (at what age, exactly, does one become a spinster?), seems like a double dose of F-You.

So, because I’m brave and classy and really in touch with my emotions, I’ve fled town for my birthday for the second year in a row. Because I simply cannot deal with waking up in my apartment, in my life, on my birthday. I’ve fled town for the holidays because everyone’s joyous exuberance and warmth and little twinkly lights and sparkly holiday parties can be a little much when you’re feeling sad and fragile and a little broken inside.

Yesterday, I posted a great blog post my friend Sean wrote about surviving the holidays. And I stand by it. His advice is fantastic. But sometimes it’s also okay to just leave town (or in my case, the country) and watch episode after episode of The Good Wife and have a nice dinner with your family. Israel is an excellent place to avoid Christmas.

And maybe I’ll even buy myself a little something.

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