For the holidays, do whatever the fuck you want. The day belongs to you. by Vivian McCall When I was a kid, Christmas was a complex, multi-day affair that began with a non-stop drive to my grandparent’s house in suburban Chicago. This sucked, and how much depended on where we happened to live at the time. Philadelphia is a manageable 11 and a half hours from Chicago. Dallas is a less manageable 14. If you’re lucky, the drive from Tampa to Chicago is 18 hours. It’s 22 if you’re not. I’m pretty sure that’s when I heard “fuck” for the first time. It remains an essential part of my vocabulary. My parents and I split the holiday between the German-Italian megachurch Baptists on my dad’s side and the Irish Catholics on my mom’s. If you know nothing of Christianity, these are very different vibes, but I'll summarize: Irish Catholics seethe privately, Baptists and Italians fight openly. On my dad’s side, I could tell “Santa” was my Grandma because she had the receipts, but in true Idolistrist fashion, my Catholic family created an elaborate ruse to convince us Santa existed. They pulled off the following for years, perfectly: Step one: After dinner, my aunt drove my cousins and me to North School Park in Arlington Heights, Illinois, which every year stages an elaborate, non-denominational holiday display. I was drawn to a scarlet letter “A” illuminated from below by a ring of floodlights that stood for “atheist.” For me, this was foreshadowing. Meanwhile, back at the house, adults removed presents from the basement and set them underneath the tree.  Step two: Illinois is freezing cold in December, and lights are only so interesting to children. In the warm car, my aunt pretended Santa's elves had called to provide constant updates on his location. She drove aimlessly until she spotted her quarry, the blinking red light of an airplane landing at O’Hare. “Rudolph,” she’d exclaim. Then she’d gun it. While we were out, the adults took single bites of multiple sugar cookies. Someone sipped the milk, foreshadowing midnight mass. They flipped off the lights and rushed downstairs to the basement. Someone called my aunt. Step three: My aunt pretended to lose track of Rudolph. We were furious with her but forgot our anger upon seeing the telltale signs of Santa outside the house. We ran haphazardly up an icy driveway. Somebody invariably ate shit. We threw open the door, screaming, and were careful to toss off our shoes. Tracking slush onto my Grandfather’s carpet would end the fun immediately. Step four: The adults ran upstairs with looks of astonishment.  I believed in Santa, even when I kinda didn’t, because I didn’t want the fun to end. Since my parents and I moved a lot and were the only ones on either side who lived outside of Chicago, Christmas became synonymous with home and stability. I looked forward to it all year. That’s why it stung so badly when my transition disrupted my enjoyment of Christmas. I get a stomachache when I think about the first couple of times I visited my family for Christmas after coming out. When your deepest darkest secret is your gender, wearing a cheap Target dress and bad makeup is a humiliation ritual. I endured that weirdness because I hoped at least one aspect of my life would return to normal if I talked normally to people who did not acknowledge my emotional coming-out email or give a great big hug to the aunt who did reply but told me I’d burn in hell for this. The hardest part was swallowing the resentment I felt for the few who supported me but not enough to stand up for me. To my mom’s side: We’re cool, love you guys. To my dad’s: Still not sure about most of you, but you have my number. After a very demoralizing 2019 holiday, I needed a break, and COVID forced my hand. You know that weird thing where men “raw dog” flights by not doing anything at all? I basically did that through the holiday season, and you know what? It’s self-harm. I swear to God, ahead of my next flight, I’m going to stuff a tote bag with John Grisham novels so I can pelt one at every idiot I see staring at a fucking headrest. Reading is sexy, gentlemen.  Anyway, I would not recommend bed rotting through a holiday if the holiday is important to you. Legitimately, it’s a risk to your health. There’s a better way, but only you know what that is.  You, gay or trans reader, might be spending the holiday alone away from your family this year. Maybe for the first time or the twentieth. It might be your choice, it might be theirs. Maybe choice isn’t a factor because the vibes are that rancid. I could give you the advice my therapist did when COVID started—people are capable of hugging themselves and here's how—or, instead of repeating the saddest advice ever given, I’ll let you in on the one good realization that came from my bed rotting on Christmas: I could not control how my family acted, but I had the power to make my day worse or make it better. All I needed was permission. So here’s yours: Do whatever the fuck you want. The day belongs to you. Play Zelda naked on your couch. Meet a Grindr hookup and find new and interesting uses for ketchup. Overspend on takeout. Hit up a friend raised in a different religion and lie to them about your traditions. They’ll never know! Ask your friends to dress as ghosts for an elaborate Victorian Christmas dinner. Take a long, cold, solitary walk. I’ve done a few of these. I’ll never say which. If you're anything like me, letting go of traditions is incredibly hard. At this point, I could definitely go home for Christmas—there are many other elaborate traditions I’ve left out. But flights to Chicago are expensive. And, for now, I’m enjoying myself too much.