Frequently Wrong, Rarely in Doubt

There’s something oddly luxurious about Christmas as an adult with no children. It’s like getting backstage access to the holiday without having to perform in the show. You get all the magic, none of the “Why is this child sticky?” And honestly, that feels like the kind of gift even Santa can’t wrap.

Let’s begin with the good stuff, because Christmas is good. It’s great, actually. I love the smells: pine, cookies, cinnamon… basically what the world wishes it smelled like the rest of the year instead of “office HVAC and disappointment.” Every December, the air suddenly turns into a cozy Hallmark card, and I am absolutely here for it. Then there’s the food. Christmas is the one season where eating brie for breakfast feels not only acceptable but festive. Add in the lights – those glorious twinkly serotonin bombs strung across houses by people far more ambitious than me – and you’ve got yourself a holiday cocktail of joy.

And the joy is real. It’s warm, it’s nostalgic, it’s the reason I find myself smiling at wrapping paper displays. There’s something so charming in knowing that glitter tape exists solely because grown adults still believe in making presents look extra special for five seconds before they’re torn open. I respect the commitment.

But of course, for every cinnamon-scented moment of bliss, Christmas also brings with it a parade of tiny inconveniences disguised as traditions.

First: the children. I don’t have them, but Christmas ensures I will hear them, see them, or nearly trip over them at least twenty-seven times before December is over. And look – I’m very happy for their joy. I applaud it. I endorse it. From a distance. Preferably from behind double-pane soundproof glass.

Then we have the money situation, which transforms every adult into a financially panicked raccoon digging through receipts. The holiday season is basically a wallet-based hostage crisis. You either buy everyone gifts or risk becoming “the person who doesn’t really do Christmas.” It makes sense to buy your kids presents. It makes sense to buy other people’s kids presents. But buying another adult a present, who is also buying you a present, is essentially buying yourself something, but on hard mode. 

Next up: the music. Mariah Carey is defrosted annually like a festive rotisserie chicken, and suddenly every store, elevator, and gas station becomes a personal reminder that she is in fact coming back for me. And don’t even get me started on the movies. Every year, Hollywood releases at least three new films called something like A Holiday for Holly or A Snowflake for Christmas Lane. And truly, good for them. But how many versions of A Christmas Carol do we need? Eventually Scrooge is going to unionize and strike, and who could even blame him at this point?

Despite all this mildly festive chaos, Christmas as a child-free adult is still weirdly wonderful. You get to opt in to the magic like a visiting dignitary – admire the lights, enjoy the cookies, observe the tiny humans from afar, and then politely exit the chaos whenever you’ve had your fill. There’s a freedom in that, a kind of joyful detachment wrapped in twinkle lights.

Because in the end, Christmas is still Christmas: bright, cozy, ridiculous, a little too loud, and completely delightful… especially when the loudest children belong to someone else.