What it is like to celebrate Christmas and New Year alone

I am not one of those given to branding workaholism as a desirable lifestyle choice. Peace be to them who are obsessed with outworking everybody – starting out earlier and ending the day later. I am just an average Joe and I go about doing my office business with a healthy work ethic and nothing more.

Come Friday evening, I transform into a celebrant keen to shake off the bleak cadence of the workweek behind and enjoy being 'lit'. And so it was this Friday evening. With unabashed glee and savory anticipation, I was looking to taking in strong gulps of the tonic of wildness and kicking up the heels.

But life can take the most unexpected of detours. Just as I was preparing to unplug and press my feet firmly on the fun accelerator, came a little piece of news that creeped me out completely and left me feeling as if I were kicked in the teeth.

A sombre announcement from my better half – a tough old bird in her own way – was all that it took to vaporize the prospective pumping shots of holiday adrenaline. Taking advantage of the weekend and the short Christmas vacation in schools, wifey dear broke the news that she had decided to visit her natal home to celebrate Christmas and New Year with the brood in tow.

It was a spur of the moment decision and not music to my ears, for sure. At a deeply personal level, it smacked of a betrayal of Shakespearian proportions. For the first time, the idea of filial piety enshrined as a moral code in our identity seemed like a dispensable sentiment.

"How can you make such spot-on decisions and leave me in the lurch. For all I know, visiting your parents was certainly not on your bucket list of activities until now," I remonstrated in an attempt to dissuade her out of the notion.

Wives are, as every sensibly married person knows, the presiding gerent at home with clear cut lines of responsibility. Any unilateralism, on her part, can invite a familial breakdown. It is, therefore, important to have a perfect clicking chemistry between husband and wife for household operations to function seamlessly.

But the moment I heard those loaded words slip out from my wife’s lips, and the wrecking havoc it would have on my weekend plans, I felt like our mutual chemistry had gone horribly out of kilter. How could she have been so secretive about her holiday plans, I never knew she was capable of such cunning, and with nary an utterance about it, I felt shorted and shafted.

And all this while, I had been foolishly beguiling myself that I knew and understood my wife inside out. To be honest, until now, the chemistry between us has been such that thoughts are untucked the moment they are formed. I know some ladies have the gift for creating closed and inscrutable information loops where personal and intimate thoughts can remain hidden from nosey husbands. But my wife is usually a shiny beacon for spilling her inner-most thoughts in less time than it takes an ice cube to vanish off a hot girdle.

So, what could explain her impetuous decision then? It was a curveball that she had thrown at me and it left me perplexed and with a definitive hangdog expression of a life about to go into irreparable turmoil.

I tried to reason with her. "See, your abrupt decision is no less than a revolt against domestic managerialism. You cannot just up and away. It's not fair," I recriminated. "Oh yes, to some degree, that's true. All these years that I have been living with you, I haven't had a break, even for a day. Looking after you and our pesky children, I feel like an overworked mom craving for a relaxing experience away from home," came the terse reply.

"Oh, with you not around, how will I manage my food, laundry, morning tea...," I pleaded plaintively, offering familiar tropes of victimhood, all the while trying to hold back the imps of emotional agitation within. "Don't be a sniveling wuss. There's an embarrassment of good eateries all around and you can always order if you don't feel like dining out. Can't you manage for just a week by yourself? You certainly are nowhere near on the autism spectrum and you can get by for a few days without help in the house," she retorted.

Not wishing to make a complete muppet of myself, I withheld lobbing further fire and resigned myself to swallowing the bullet and taking on the unpleasant chores essential to survival.

The first morning that I spent by myself in the house was Sunday, the day of Sabbath. An overbearing sense of rootlessness and loneliness tugged at my heartstrings and I felt like an unmoored boat cast adrift from the harbour. After tossing about in the bed in the first hour of wakefulness, I grew desperate for the jolt from a morning espresso.

For many of us, caffeine is as necessary to the morning as sunrise. "On your feet, layabout," I reproached myself, shuffling morosely into the kitchen and stiffening up on the way to make it through the gauntlet of trouble that lay ahead. Finding the milk in the fridge was the easy part. But locating the coffee jar from the jumble of cans and canisters on the shelves made me fumble like a hopeless dyslexic. I gave up. Instead, I decided to shower, dress up and go for breakfast at a nearby brasserie.

Years of total household dependency on the missus had ensured that I did not have to sweat the small stuff in the house. Now, left to fend for myself, I was having my come-to-Jesus moment. In this moment of epiphany, I realized that life-improving goals don't essentially spring from the puritan rigor of the workplace. There are an overwhelming number of things to do and know about household scutwork. Determined to not lose control and still function productively with a clear head and a positive sense of relaxed control, I repaired to a cozy little dive in the vicinity of the house.

Settling down for the morning nosh, I browsed the menu looking for one dish that could get etched in my palate memory and make my Sunday whole. A gentleman at the front table, probably in his forties, was glugging beer and scarfing down pizza. A perfect selection of guilty pleasures, I thought. I couldn't help surmising about his current status – was he too, like me, bereft of domestic felicity?

Casting my eyes around, I espied many other singletons getting on fine and dandy. The sight lifted my mood considerably and high feelings ensued. Realizing that it was a weekend holiday around Christmas, I decided to live the moment and made myself comfortable with a big, fat, round tumbler of super-strength vodka to go along with fish burger. 

 Alcoholic beverages can be calorie bombs. But I have never nurtured any health fetish and I equate drinking with getting bombarded by high energy particles. Soon, I was feeling high enough to let go off the woebegone circumstances at home. A drink or two accelerates your brain’s ability to create new synaptic pathways and you are able assess your existence in a different light.

Aided by the spiritual libation, I felt happy like a larry as I tucked into fantastic food, soaked up the buzzing atmosphere and indulged in a spot of people-watching. By the time I decided to leave, enough endorphins had been released into the brain to fill me up with a warm contentment. My horizons had brightened considerably and I walked back to the house determined to organize my life as logically as the periodic table. 

On the way back, the phone buzzed. I was missus calling in to check how I was faring in her absence. "I am doing great. Instead of ordering food, I decided to get my hands dirty in the kitchen this morning. I hope by the time you return, I would probably be the best-known short-order chef in the world. Have a good time and don't bother," I said, half chuckling, and hung up. With or without the wife, I am not going to allow my life tip into a trough and waste away an opportunity to whoop it up this holiday season. So what if I have my own company to look forward to. I am going to kick up my heels and have a glorious Christmas and New Year anyway.