I realized something very odd recently. I am ever the single-man when it comes to Christmastime.
The last time I had a reason to sing "Baby It's Cold Outside" was when I was a freshman in high school and I had a girlfriend named Amanda. I don't remember what exactly I got her, but I remember she got me something with Marvin the Martian on it. Perhaps it was a big plush version of him? Either way, that's what I remember. Not exactly the fodder for a Nicholas Sparks screenplay.
Not that I'm one of those people who is perpetually in a relationship, but the times when I have been, those relationships have met their demise before the holiday season has begun to materialize on storefronts and TV commercials. It's just how the cosmic timing of my life has panned out.
This whole "being single at New Years" thing usually parlays into being single for Valentines Day, something I'm completely comfortable with. I can enjoy the chocolate without having to share. Plus, Hallmark and Duane Reade have put such a weight of expectation on Valentines Day that it's really not fun or exciting. It's expected. And to me, expected is the enemy of romance. The best things in my life haven't come from being calculated or trying to make all the puzzle pieces fit just so. The best things in my life have been unexpected.
So while I won't be singing any rendition of the drunk, slutty and moderately misogynistic Christmas classic, "Baby It's Cold Outside," this year, I may look for that Marvin the Martian thing, to see if that still exists in the back of my old closet at my parents' house. And who knows, maybe this time next year, I'll be writing about using signs at Christmas and how I "feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes." I won't expect it, but it'd be nice.