I have been single for the entirety of my 32 years of existence. Let me stop you before you ask, “How is that possible?” It just is. Also, no, I am not part of a religious cult.
For 364 days out of the year, I don’t mind it all that much. I go where I want, see whom I want and do whatever I want. Sure, I would like someone to share big moments with or someone to accompany me on my upcoming trip to Mexico City. But all things considered, it’s not a bad deal. There is, however, one day that makes me feel single more than any other. It is not New Year’s Eve or Valentine’s Day. The hardest is the day I buy my Christmas tree.
I love Christmas and everything that comes with it. I grew up in a family that steadfastly upholds the tradition of Santa Claus and fights over which Amy Grant CD should be played first every morning. We contemplate what to do with our nominal stocking scratcher winnings. I love the baking and the gift giving and the big dinners and the songs and the cold weather. And I love the tree.
But damn it, I want a real tree. I want the San Francisco version of a white Christmas; I want to “Deck the Halls.” I lock eyes on a six-foot-tall beauty and determinedly march to the front.
So here I am once again standing in the middle of the Delancey Street tree lot at the corner of Fulton and 48th Avenue. I could do what makes sense and choose one of those small, sad-looking trees that has been wedged in the corner. But damn it, I want a real tree. I want the San Francisco version of a white Christmas; I want to “Deck the Halls.” I lock eyes on a six-foot-tall beauty and determinedly march to the front.
I greet the cheery cashier and point proudly to my chosen tree. As she follows the direction of my finger, her smile falls a bit as she asks the question I dread every year: “Do you have someone to help you with that?” “Nope. Just me,” I say, with a slight hint of resentment. “I’ll be fine.”
Thankfully, no more questions are asked; she yells to someone named Mike to retrieve my tree, and after a quick trunk trim, it’s just the two of us:me and the tree, I mean.I look at my car and quietly curse myself for parking so far away. I begin to drag the tree slowly across the lot. Two Safeway employees laugh as I struggle past them, and about halfway to my car, a man stops and offers to carry it the rest of the way. “No, thank you,” I almost shout as beads of sweat drip down my face. He quickly walks away. I enjoy a quick moment of triumph when I finally get it to my car before the reality sinks in. Now I have to get it into my car.
I quickly realize that never before have I been so acutely aware of 48 individual stairs. “You got this,” I tell myself, as I lift for the 47th time. “Just. One. More.”
The tree falls twice when I lean it against my bumper as I fumble for my keys. I give it a giant bear hug, ignoring the pain of the branches in my face, and I heave it into my trunk. Pine needles fall like indelicate snowflakes as the tree hits my backseat. At least my car’s odor of stale coffee has momentarily been replaced with this welcome woodsy smell.
Ten minutes later I am parked illegally in front of my apartment. I pull it forcefully from my car, and the tree hits the pavement with a thud. I wedge a neighbor’s potted plant against the lobby door, squeeze through the entrance and begin the ascent to my apartment. I quickly realize that never before have I been so acutely aware of 48 individual stairs. “You got this,” I tell myself, as I lift for the 47th time. “Just. One. More.”
I open the door. My right foot catches the corner of my table, and I almost go down hard. Thankfully, this tree is like one giant walking stick. I recover momentarily until one of the branches hits my bar and two bottles fall to the floor. “NOT THE MEZCAL,” I shriek. Thankfully, they are intact. I leave the bottles where they lie and continue on to the dreaded tree stand.
I hoist the tree into the opening, close my right hand around the middle of the trunk and carefully crouch down so my left hand can reach the screws — all the while trying to keep this six-foot-tall mass of wood and pine perfectly straight. It’s not even close to vertical. I loosen the screws and readjust. By the third attempt, I let it fall, base and all, and go to the kitchen to pour myself a rather full glass of champagne. I’m at a complete loss at the moment, but I’m sure there’s something about this worth celebrating.
By attempt number 4, I am on my second glass, and Wham!’s “Last Christmas” is blasting on repeat. Maybe it’s the influence of George Michael or the fact that now I am half drunk, but attempt number 5 looks pretty damn straight. On go the lights and the ornaments and the tree topper. I step back and look at this straight-ish tree with roughly 70 percent of the pine needles still intact, and the pain and frustration of the previous three hours begin to subside. In this moment, it is Christmas.
By attempt number 4, I am on my second glass, and Wham!’s “Last Christmas” is blasting on repeat. Maybe it’s the influence of George Michael or the fact that now I am half drunk, but attempt number 5 looks pretty damn straight.
Yes, maybe next year the stars will align, and I won’t be Groundhogging this special day all by my lonesome self again. But in the meantime, until I remove the tree from its stand, carry it the 48 steps back downstairs and lay it down for its final rest on the street corner, I am single with a Christmas tree.
