I’ve been listening to the NSYNC Home For Christmas album every Christmas season since it came out in 1998. That’s 16 Christmases of engulfing disappointment when Justin Timberlake was nowhere to be found anywhere up under my evergreen. It’s partly to blame for why I’m so emotionally handicapped as an adult (but that’s just one chapter in a centuries-old narrative of why I have unrealistic and disproportionate expectations for my love life). Disney messed me up real bad, lemme tell ya, from the Mickey Mouse Club to the Princess Collection.
Romance has never been my forte, which I consider a very huge impediment to my efforts in acquiring a rich husband in the second half of my twenties. I remember the summer I came back from London, I began reading Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and somehow slipped into September reading Sex & the City (the actual book … which I thought was shit). That’s basically a metaphor for my attitude on falling in love.
WHY am I bringing this up during the festivus season? Because Love Actually and all my other go-to’s for holiday cheer have “love” as the centerpiece. Not that my life is devoid of love—the love I have for my niece and nephews (and wine) is the greatest love I will ever know—but it lacks what every girl in the privileged world wants … a tanned and shirtless Rodrigo Santoro as a coworker.
MY COWORKERS. HO MAH GAWD.
I always think that I’m giving the beautiful adonises en mi trabajo (whom I shall not name for fear of termination and/or lawsuit) demure-yet-coquettish side glances that say, “Come and see about me.” But, judging from the fear of God in their eyes, I’m probably more likely to be saying: “I’ll be waiting for you in the dark shadows of the Christmas party venue, and at the first sign that you’re nearing blackout-stage in the evening, I will club you and drag you off like a caveman.” So… I honestly can’t determine how far back in time my body language has misrepresented my intentions… Clearly, at 25, I have yet to master ‘the smolder.’
At one point in my failed attempts at netting a husband from the office pond, my prospect nearly ran into a wall trying to escape small talk with me. But has that deterred me from still trying? No, because throwing in the towel when you’re already behind is only what people with dignity would do. “Never give up,” as my father says!
“I have 60 lbs of mistletoe,” I remember my friend telling me when I went to visit her lovely little flower shop in London. The first thought that ran through my mind was, “That’s enough to make a spiderweb/bear-trap.” Because I’m insane.
Superficially, I’m being very honest with myself about what to expect in a big city: Tinder, the Asian Impressions Instagram account, an East Slavic Peter Pan ‘gentleman suitor,’ bacchanals in SoHo after work, and a 45:1 ratio of single women to single men in New York City.
Subdermally, I’m just trying to get the frontman of Bastille to fornicate with me. I imagine, upon meeting him, sprawling out like the Vitruvian man and blurting (with steady conviction and verve), “Just effing have sex with me!” Using scare-mongering as a tactic for amour. YOLO.
I had far too much fun writing this one.
Happy Holidays, lifelong NSYNCers.