There’s a certain awkwardness to entering adulthood – the time your relationships get more serious, flats are rented, jobs are no longer temp roles but career stepping stones – but you’re only just starting, so the title of ‘proper adult’ is yet to be attained. At this time of year, that translates to doing what your family wants you to do at Christmas. You might be old enough to pay your own gas bill, but you’ve got a way to go before you can declare your own Christmas day plans.
Because of this, and the fact that for a few years Christmas meant having to wave goodbye to G while we saw our respective families for a few days, we introduced Fake Christmas. Typically held on the 23rd December, we would have our own day. Christmas dinner, presents, crap TV, Quality Street, cheese, the lot. It was amazing, not just because we seemingly invented a way of having more than one Christmas dinner, but it was our own day, with nobody else any wiser as to what we were doing.
This year we have a baby, and that seems just about enough of a valid excuse to want to spend the break in the same place, thankfully. Although, it seems, not enough to grant us our own plans. Our presence is still being demanded from both our families, only this time it’s not because they want to see us, but their granddaughter, who is no doubt going to be gifted shares in Toys R Us.
It’ll be nice, but it will still be manic, and still involve hundreds of miles of driving on the days you’re supposed to spend feeling too full to get dressed. So from this year, Fake Christmas is being replaced with Date Day. We’re shipping little Mads off to granny’s for the afternoon and we’re going to go for a nice, adult meal where we can catch up and eat food that’s still hot and maybe even have a glass of wine. If it goes well, it’ll be the start of a new tradition. If not, it’ll be pizza for tea and back to wondering if we’ll ever be ‘proper adults’.