John Keats: All I Want for Christmas

Ahh. Christmas time. The aroma of pine, packages wrapped in gold, rosy cheeks, the jingle of holiday tunes, mistletoe...oh, wait. Right there. The end of Christmas cheer. Every year, with the decking of halls and roasting of chestnuts, I remember that I remain helplessly, pathetically, single. Though my static Facebook status never truly bothers me, something about the holiday season results in a subconscious awareness of my loneliness. I witness couples exchange a peck under the holly and ivy, and sip on hot cocoa at the local Starbucks. How cute. I gag at this cheesy display of affection, then realize this disgust stems from my actual envy. As I watch lovers stroll along the picturesque scenery of Chagrin, I, too, find myself yearning for a glove-covered hand to hold on to. I can only remain so hopeful after receiving a number of "Jingle Jingle, Ready to Mingle" party invites from my sister. But thanks to AP English, I believe I have found my male suitor for this Christmas season. John Keats. While researching the poet, I stumbled upon one of his love letters addressed to Miss Fanny Brawne. One thing led to another, and I found myself fawning over his chivalry for the next half hour. Just like a train wreck, I understood the dangerous potential for self-pity as I continued to read - yet could not stop. As soon as I believed my sense of dejection could not reach higher levels, Keats' letters only worsened my dilemma. I mean, he refers to her as "My Sweet Girl," and "tender Beauty." Come on! Her name is Fanny! I shook my head with each endearment, and slumped lower in my seat with every passionate plead. For those thirty minutes, I lived vicariously through Fanny and the adoration she so effortlessly received. She had him wrapped around her finger. Totally whipped. Oh how I wish I had someone like John Keats. My infatuation for this hopeless romantic reached new levels when he proclaimed, "you [Fanny] are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom," only in reference to his passionate love. I continued to drool over this sappy romance, especially upon hearing Keats' wish that "we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days...with more delight than fifty common years could ever obtain." My Santa wish-list: for a man to adore me so much, that he admits to a willing loss of personal freedom. Or for a man that wishes for our metamorphosis into majestic butterflies. Either or. After reading Keats' gooey letters, my smitten romance fantasy of gingerbread house decorating and trimming trees seems that much more realistic. Wether or not I find my Christmas courtship in the six days, I now know that my heart lies in the early 19th century.  As long as the holiday season continues to shove my single status in my face, I will try to remember that Christmas miracles do exist. Or maybe I should just rename myself Fanny. 

"Book" Club: Giddy women, Gossip and Gin.

Everybody talks. Including my mother. Right now, at this very moment, I attempt to experience a moment of solitude away from the howls of 50-year old women. Tonight, my mother hosts their monthly Book Club meeting: three hours of chatter, crab cake platters, and debates over poinsettias versus begonias.  Wether or not they actually discuss literature still remains a mystery. When I dare to descend from the safety of my bedroom, however, I can always count on hearing the latest gossip mixed with one or four glasses of pinot grigio. I secretly chuckle at their blemished gossip, trying to piece together the Police Blotter puzzle. I know all the juicy details, yet spare them my knowledge just so I can continue shaking my head. Upon my arrival in the living room, they frantically reach for their novels and assemble their reading glasses with shaking hands - desperately hoping to fool me. But behind those barely-turned pages and tortoise shell frames, lay the masterminds behind Chagrin Falls' very own Town Tattle. Their pathetic, middle-aged whispers remind me of the many New York tattlers in The Great Gatsby. Like Myrtle, Tom, and all the socialites in between, the members of my mother's Book Club tend to thrive on floating rumors. I grimace at their flawed information and unreliable sources. Just when I thought a discussion on 50 Shades of Grey amongst a group of empty-nesters could get any worse, their inner-middle schooler comes out to play. I find it quite cute, actually; the sparks of youth that surface from their laughter and gossip. I do not blame them and their hushed versions of "he said, she said," for I regularly partake in this talk as well. We, the Book Club members and myself, do not stray far from the shallow characters within Fitzgerald's novel. We can not control the scandalous information that comes our way, and naturally lack the sufficient discretion to prevent us from spreading it. Like those that attend Gatsby's parties, I observe the pepper-haired mothers exchange hearsay with eager eyes. Mouth's stuffed with olive tapenade and bleu cheese still have room to share hidden secrets.  I sympathize with their deficiency of willpower to withhold confidential information. When I look at this room of gossip-hungry individuals, I see myself and my friends. We, too, experience the consequences surrounding pre-conceived notions and conclusions. Even the trusting words, "do not tell anybody" can not compete to impulsive spilling of secrets. Wether you are a mother in the midst of a mid-life crisis, or a high schooler drowning in drama, rumors will always spread - no question about it. To gossip, or not to gossip? That presents the real question.

Expect the Unexpected

20 days until Christmas. 26 days until New Years. 43 days until my birthday. 172 days until Blossom. The clock of life constantly ticks away in my mind, tallying the days until the next extravaganza. I, the proud downloader of the countdown app "Big Day," find myself calculating how long I must wait before the future turns to present. I scribble numbers in the margins of my planner, put post-its on my bathroom mirror and circle calendar dates in crimson red. I even find myself counting down until an appropriate day to begin counting down. All in anticipation for the "Big Day." Well, in my case, a plethora of big days. My friends and I discuss weekend plans and make seasonal activity lists in hopes of creating the glamorous lifestyle we all envision. However, our favorite thespian once said, "Expectation is the root of all heartache." Shakespeare's morse code has never made more sense. By setting up expectations, we simply set ourselves up for disappointment. Anticipation, the most dangerous form of hope, grows in size the more we feed it. Expectancy lingers in small talk, plays like a movie in our minds and puts butterflies in our stomachs - only to let us down in the end. Sometimes, all the hype successfully amounts to our expectations. The countdown to Friday never fails, nor does the wait for Thanksgiving dinner. Most times, unfortunately, all the build up proves anticlimactic. After waiting for months, Rihanna's newest album failed to impress. My attempt at a making Frosty the Snowman after the season's first (and short-lived) snowfall ended pathetically. My latest order of Spinach con Queso at the Rusty Bucket had too much spinach and not enough queso - a colossal disappointment after the hours I spent salivating in anticipation. While we cannot tame optimism and excitement towards high expectations, we must understand their potential to dissatisfy. The allure of assumptions and the unknown distracts us from the joys of reality. I do not believe that expecting the best will always end badly. However, when things do not go as planned, we become blind to what good lies in front of us. If we live 300 days in the future, those 300 days leading up will blur together before we have time to appreciate them. But in case you wonder, t-184 days until summer.