DAY ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN: The Pauper's First Christmas
Our perceptions of reality have always been altered. Conflicting ideologies paint the beliefs some people are willing to die for. As children, we are taught that we celebrate Thanksgiving because it's when the Indians and Pilgrims sat down together and became best friends forever. Until, of course, the Pilgrims raped the Indians, spreading incurable communicable diseases and stole their land only to essentially rape and pillage that as well.
The most egregious application of the taintification of reality would be the romantic comedy. (Yes, even more so than the decimation of an entire people. And yes, read the sarcasm, sit back, and enjoy an acerbic blog post from a Christmas Scrooge.) I recently revisited a newly anointed Christmas perennial, Love Actually. I believe it was Christmas of my 16th year of life the first time I caught it in an overpacked theater with some friends that preceded a ladies' dinner date at Pargo's Restaurant (R.I.P.) in Frederick, Maryland - my hometown.
I can't fully articulate what made me want to see it. I had been a staunch cynic having come up completely and utterly empty-handed in the love like seriously, can we just pretend like I at least have lady bits department. So rarely did I feel like spending my Friday or Saturday nights paying 8 bucks to spend an hour and a half Liz Lemoning all over a crowded theater. But for some reason - maybe it was the allure of British accents or the undercooked French fries with that perfect style of Honey Mustard at Pargo's - that had me agreeing to see it.
And something weird happened to my body while doing so. I smiled. I laughed. I got this warm gooey feeling inside of me that should not be read as inappropriate, you ass bags. I had done it. I had thoroughly enjoyed a romantic comedy. Who am I?
By the time college had started, I purchased it and made it my own tradition to watch it every year at Christmas in the time leading up to my familial Christmas traditions. And an away message quoting the infamous "Carol Singers posterboard" scene played an integral role in a pseudo relationship when I was 19 - the details of which are too pathetic and therefore rife with self-effacing humor to be told in a sentence or two. So stay tuned.
So I carried on my tradition. Even as I grew up and realized just how insipid the plots were, and how cringeworthy the writing is, and how cloying the music can be; I still always enjoyed that little warm and gooey Christmas pick me up.
Until the year I decided to spend Christmas alone instead of heading off to see my family in the same stupid city that stupid movie was stupid filmed in.
I'm not sure why I thought it'd be a good idea. Some kind of masochistic inclination triggered by some late night whiskey after a long day at work. Nevertheless, it happened. And it wasn't pretty.
Everything I was willing to forgive was no longer unforgivable. Hugh Grant falls in love with some girl just because she was silly enough to swear in front of *gasp* the prime minister?! It's not the fucking pope. And even he seems pretty chill by today's standards.
Alan Rickman, as Laura Linney's fucking boss feels it is appropriate to probe into her love life and make her feel awkward as hell just because we need a plot device?! JOBS ARE HORRIBLE! COMPANIES ARE NEVER AS COOL AS THEY ARE IN THE MOVIES! UNLESS YOU WORK AT FUCKING DIGITAS WHICH I HAD TO PASS IN THE ELEVATORS EVERY DAY AT WORK AND WATCH AS WHAT CAN ONLY BE DESCRIBED AS A CORPORATE FUNHOUSE APPEARED BEFORE ME ON A DAILY BASIS ON MY WAY TO MY SOUL-SUCK OF A JOB!
But I digress.
Sam doesn't give a shit that his mom just died?! DUDE! Put the insipid puppy love on hold for a second and mourn the woman who has loved you unconditionally since you were a fetus.
So all these flaws started to come through the cracks. I got mad at this movie I loved because it made my poor, blackened heart believe that Christmas was a time for goddamned miracles. Christmas was a time you never had to feel alone. Someone would be there for you. Someone would care for you. Someone would walk up to your front door and pull some elaborate, speechless speech to tell you how much they love you.
We watch movies like this because they give us hope. Hope is the thing that keeps us going in life. People cling to religion in the hope that life isn't just over when we die. People with suicidal tendencies don't always go through with it because they have to hope that things are going to turn around. And 26-year-old women still believe in fairy tales because it hurts too much to face reality.
Some naive part of me still believes something magical is going to happen in two days. But the part of me that clings to those silly hopes is quickly dying. Because even when you get the fairy tale, you only get the portion most movies allow you to see. It's the law of gravity: what goes up, must come down. After the fairy tale is over, life gets all mumblecore on us. And what's really more depressing to watch? The truth, or a fabrication of life too impossible to be real? This Christmas, I'm going to pop open my Netflix, open up a bottle of whiskey, and watch some Blue Valentine.
Let it be known that Hannah's new Christmas tradition shall be watching the demise of Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams' marriage. And watch Michelle Williams lose their poor dog. Aw, poor dog.
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