Well, I did it. I made it through my first alone Christmas. I guess I am truly, finally an adult. Sort of.
I didn't cry knowing that S was rooting out militants while I kneaded biscuit dough; I didn't turn into a malicious drunk when I realized he didn't call me and wouldn't be calling me. Instead, I sipped another glass of mulled wine, admired the newly upholstered couches of a recent acquaintance, and made do.
I spent much of the morning in bed, made some food, attended "a very expat potluck," exchanged goofy gifts, ate food, sang along with a gee-tar, and had a conversation about peanut allergies.
My grandparents called on Christmas eve, my parents/brother on Christmas day. I did not cry when I heard stories about my niece and nephew. I did not scream when I heard that customs officials confiscated the coveted "Rat brand" knives I picked out for my brothers.
10,000 miles from Portland.
366 days since our last family holiday.
Somehow, it seems those days have become years. I don't think I could have done this, could have been this person, if I had left a day earlier.