Spread the Joy.
At Christmas, all sense of good taste is thrown under the bus. Homes are transformed into kitschy nightmares, and we’re forced to spend time with people we, at best, share a genetic pool with – and that’s about it. To cope, we numb ourselves with alcohol, sweets, and hopeless food. Then we give presents to children who lose interest in them the moment the wrapping paper is torn off. The TV volume is turned up as Donald Duck and his friends wish us a Merry Christmas – a rerun reminding us that the only sensible place in the world is the past.
It’s therefore refreshing that a large group of friends and I have, for years, booked a table at a restaurant in town. A tradition we’ve created ourselves, allowing us to socialise in a Christmas-free environment like proper adults. But in recent years, even this arrangement has become problematic for me.
-I know, let’s order lots of different dishes to share, one of my friends says, immediately receiving the group’s approval. I grit my teeth. This has been going on for years, and I’ve gone along with it to avoid ruining the good atmosphere. Breaking bread has been portrayed as something wonderful and communal since biblical times. So how do I tell them I hate it? That I want to make an active choice from the menu, pick something I actually fancy, and then eat it all without the risk of stray forks laying claim to my food? I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions, but for the past twenty years, I’ve promised myself to stand up for myself more and stop being so agreeable. So I decide this is a good time to start.
-Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t want your urine in my mouth.
Everyone laughs, but when they see the look on my face, they quickly fall silent.
-I’m not naming names, but I’ve seen how some of you are a bit lax with handwashing in the men’s toilet, I explain. The very thought of sharing dishes with those hands makes me feel sick.
The women around the table glance searchingly at their husbands, who shrug apologetically.
-What’s he on about?
-I understand this is a bit sensitive. But just as I wouldn’t take pick-and-mix sweets from a bowl in a dementia care home or shake hands with a leper, I won’t share faecal bacteria with my best friends.
-Faecal? I thought you said urine? one of the women blurts out.
-Poor hand hygiene is a slippery slope, don’t you think? I reply, a touch diplomatically.
-If you’re so bloody worried about our dirty hands, snaps the man who suggested sharing the food, why don’t you just order your own dish?
I nod gravely, masking the fact that he’s played straight into my hands.
-Yes, exactly! Isn’t it great that we’ve cleared this up? I wouldn’t want you lot sitting there worrying that I’m silently judging you throughout the entire evening – no one benefits from that.
I may have lost all my friends that night, but I gained self-respect and thoroughly enjoyed a delicious charred halibut.