Holidays are hard because they reminder me of the same date, the same holiday, the year before.
“Next year will be different,” I assure myself last year. I was sure that by then I’d have a boyfriend to show off to my friends, cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents who believe that I am either an old maid or a lesbian because I’m still single.
Instead of facing the tragedy of another failed attempt to bring a boyfriend, I day dream. I dream that I have someone to sit next to me and to help me avoid the murky waters of small talk, Someone I could sneak off with, after making our polite but quick good byes.
Then the night would be ours.
Well, it looks like I’m in for another year of solitude. How am I spending my labor day? Alone. The weather is nice, I have errands I could run, I could go for a bike ride– maybe I will. But I’m holed up in my room, stressed beyond belief about bar Admissions standards. It’s sadder but safe to stay in here. I’m two weeks sober from weed and months from the other stuff.
But I’m depressed. Crossing the threshold is work, the sun is too bright, the lines are too long and, saddest of all, I have no one to share it with.
I guess I need those meds after after all.