Merry F*cking Christmas

By Mama Tiff

Eat, drink, and be merry… for tomorrow we die.

Except apparently this year I looked that phrase dead in the face and said, “Cute. Anyway…”

It’s almost Christmas and I just realized I’m not making the usual goody plates, cheese balls, fudge, twelve desserts, and a side of “why do I feel like a human trash can?” Like… who am I?

Normally I’m out here eating sweets and drinking like it’s my seasonal job. This year? I blinked and it’s basically New Year’s, and I’m standing in my kitchen thinking, wait… I haven’t even had to “take a break” from sugar and alcohol because I wasn’t doing it.

What the actual fuck is going on?

Also, swear to God, two days ago Christmas was two weeks away. Either I’m losing my mind or time is doing that guru thing where it “speeds up.” And honestly, I’m starting to believe them.

Now, before anyone gets it twisted, Thanksgiving Day was amazing.

We made it what we wanted. A day of gratitude, love, good food, and actual presence. Because I’ve been having this whole awakening about holidays lately. The stories we were handed are not always the whole story.

I’m not trying to classify anything here. I truly do not care if someone doesn’t like what I have to say. I’m realizing that a lot of what we’ve been told over the years about holidays, about everything, and especially about patriarchy, is a bunch of bunk.

So we’re doing what feels true. We’re enjoying our lives. We’re choosing what we keep and leaving the rest on the shelf. That’s it. That’s the sermon.

Jack and I reclaimed Thanksgiving and made it ours. And it was beautiful.

But the day after Thanksgiving? That’s the old ritual.

That tradition goes all the way back to my childhood with my mom. Me in a robe. Making an insane amount of food. Sitting on the couch watching Christmas movies. Eating all day long like it’s a competitive sport. Then going to bed sick wondering why we did this to ourselves.

And yes, I pulled Jack into it.

He’s always done it because he loves me. But if I’m honest, I don’t think he ever liked it very much. And this year, when I got up and said, “Let’s get out of here,” I swear that man looked relieved.

This year I didn’t do the piggy couch binge. Not because I’m restricting. Not because I’m being “good.” I just didn’t want to feel like shit.

Something in me has changed.

And honestly, I feel the same way about Christmas.

If you look back far enough, it’s a layered holiday with a lot of history underneath it. I’m not saying that to offend anyone. I’m saying it because I’m realizing I can keep what I love and let the rest fall away.

And let me be crystal clear. I love Jesus. He’s my guy. Just not in the way some Christians think about it. Respectfully.

My tree is beautiful, and it means something so much deeper to me now. And if you genuinely want to know what it means, DM me. I’ll send you the song I wrote about it. It’s too personal for the comment section.

Tonight, friends are coming over. I took a shot for science. And we’re doing the only thing that actually matters.

Laughing. Loving. Enjoying what’s here.

If you need me, I’ll be in my Christmas gear pretending I’m totally fine with how fast December just punched me in the face.

PS: If you’re a cocktail person, DM me and I’ll send you my orange spice whiskey sour recipe. Because I freaking love you.

Merry fucking Christmas.

Mama Tiff