Christmas as an Adult

It’s Christmas Day and I’m popping Ativan with my dog and my mom, hiding from the onslaught of random guests invading my grandma’s one-bedroom condo during a global pandemic. Lava (my dog) scratches at the layers of her bed and spins in circles; she’s either nesting or these tranquilizers kick in remarkably fast. She eyes me with a tinge of worry and trust: I don’t know what’s happening, but you’ll take care of me, right?

“How much did you give her?” my mom asks. We’re sitting next to each other on a futon. It feels almost equal.

“Just one. I thought it was one pill per pound at first—”

“That would kill her!”

“Yup. Fortunately realized. So, just the one. How long does it usually take to kick in?”

“Thirty-ish minutes? Like acid or shrooms--"

"Or trying to drive anywhere in LA." She gives a generous chuckle to my mediocre joke. Moms really are your biggest fans.

She sighs. "I should probably get back out there so I can pretend I’m not being rude.”

“We’ll be here," I say as she reaches for the door. Before she gets to it, the door opens from the other side with my sixteen-year-old brother entering, Nintendo in hand. “Hey, dude. Welcome.” He answers with a sigh of relief, plopping onto one of those armchairs with a built-in massager, parallel to the futon. Mom glances back at us as a WWII soldier might do before shipping off on D-Day. I hesitate to resort to my phone for distraction. I think about engaging my young brother but he seems pretty into whatever he's playing.

So, I take in my surroundings: the small room with minimum furniture. A plastic wall clock, the futon, that massage chair that reminds me of being in a mall, a printer, and a small assortment of Asian decor (running the gamut between China dolls and a lamp shaped like a Shinto Shrine). I’m brought back to my earliest memories in this space. Seventeen years back, not yet twelve. Before puberty and its discoveries. Before transitioning or even knowing I could. At the apex of child and teenager (that messy extension of childhood melded with early onset adulthood), desperately clinging to my sense of innocence, somehow aware of its precarious status. Knowing without knowing that innocence is an endangered species. Young me, playing songs I made on ukulele pining for unrequited crushes and feelings I never thought I'd get to explore.

My grandma bought this condo during one of the Great Recessions, before the market crashed and destroyed so many lives. My parents had bought a house at the same time, it didn't destroy their lives but it didn't end well. I remember one of my first winters here, it snowed. I didn't know it could snow in Las Vegas. Also didn't realize then that the weather patterns I had been taught in 3rd grade science would soon become outdated, with every year bringing its own brand of "unprecedented" weather patterns. Unusual phenomenons that now occur with such frequency I wonder how long it will be before we accept it as usual. Or maybe we already have. Shocked headlines more for show than anything else. After all, it's scarier to accept that life as we know it is dead than to pretend it's more just a matter of waiting for things to go back to how they use to be. Scarier still is the thought that life as we know it has never been what we've been told it was...

Damn. The Ativan must be hitting. My body feels heavier and lighter at the same time. Subtle enough to make me wonder if this is how it always is. Sure seems like it's how it'll always be. But that's probably wishful thinking.

* * *

It's Christmas Eve and everyone is starving because the dining room table is covered in just desserts, and no one has the patience nor fortitude to wade through the range of expiration dates packing grandma's fridge.

"Is there enough lunchmeat for everyone to make sandwiches for dinner?" I ask my dad while helping him cover his back in Salon Pas patches.

"I'm good. I don't need to eat." His resignation seems to be shared by every other member of my family, including my older brother and sister-in-law. One of those moments where everyone's thinking the same thing but are, for whatever reason, unable to or unsure of how to alter the course of events. Then, like Odysseus washed up on the shore, the answer finds me as Nausicaa found him:

"I'm gonna order some pizzas."

My dad's eyes light up just enough for me to notice and he spreads the word fast. As each member of the family finds out we're getting something for dinner, you can feel the sense of relief pulsing through their tense bodies.

"Let's go!" my younger brother says with the most enthusiasm I've seen so far in our five days together. "I saw the table of desserts and was wondering."

When the pizzas arrive, I feel like a hero inside. Seeing how my role in our family has developed while recognizing its reality as one I've filled my whole life. One I've willingly taken on since I was ten. To enact positive change. To bring about relief from the stress of living. To feed the hunger brought on by apathy and excess.

* * *

It's December 29th and I'm driving back home. To the life I've built tangental to the life I've known. Missing my family but excited to return. I watch the sun rise over the desert mountains and admire how it paints this ageless landscape in a palette of purple-pinks no photo could do justice. And I think about growing up. How it feels so much like a destination until you realize it's all a journey instead.