One time this happened...

The smell of stale eggnog clung to me like an uncle's bad cologne. My family's holiday party is a vortex of forced merriment, and I'm stuck at the periphery, feeling like a worn-out sweater.

Sometimes my relatives' house feels less like home than a giant awkwardly-shaped closet. The Christmas tree in the corner, covered in gaudy ornaments and half-undone bows, casts long shadows on the worn carpet as I stand there, clutching my obligatory gift.

New Year's Eve was unfolding like every other year, with the same tired routine: eat my mom's mediocre meatballs, pretend to have fun at my cousin's friend's open-bar apartment, and attempt to will the crowd into a decent countdown without anyone shouting "Ten seconds!" like I do. In an ill-fated bid to participate, I tried to dance, resulting in me bumping into a lamppost, a bewildered cat hissing at my knees, and, unfortunately, a minor scuffle with a flailing umbrella over control of the last slice of mediocre pizza.

This past Christmas, my family managed to fit a small tree in the laundry basket, its branches jutting out like tiny arms, and placed it on my grandma's cluttered kitchen table - we'd convinced her she was too old to handle the holiday frenzy. We made her decorate it herself, with me standing by 'just in case,' my aunt piping up at every choice, 'No, no, grandma, the sparkly balls are on top of the garland!' but I was mostly just there to hide our glee as grandma meticulously balanced a glittering snowflake on the tip of a branch – it immediately tipped off and landed in a forgotten pile of last year's lottery tickets.

I stood at the edge of my family's holiday dinner, surveying the table like it was a minefield. In our annual gift-giving tradition, I'd bought my younger cousin a new bike, carefully selecting a shiny red one that looked exactly like mine had when I was that age.

Misteltoe incident - December 23rd still seared into my brain, and for the love of sparkly tinsel, please don't ask about Santa's mustache.