For the last eight years I have spent Christmas Eve or Christmas Day on a plane.
Evidently, this also meant a lot of time was spent in airports, which, on Christmas Day, is infinitely depressing.
Think empty hallways, closed coffee shops, stale breakfast bagels, and tinny Christmas Carols. Self pity levels truly skyrocket at an airport on Christmas Day.
However, this year is going to be different. This year I am not going home for Christmas.
With my family in Brisbane and my feet generally dancing about somewhere else, Christmas was always my time of year to head home.
Most of my 20’s was spent in chilly Melbourne, so the lure of a few days next to the pool with a full fridge, glorious heat, and my large extended family was always too good to refuse.
Boyfriends came and went, but last year was really the first year of Bringing The Serious Boyfriend Home.
It was wonderful, but also meant sharing those precious few festive days over not one, not two, but three families.
Christmas Eve was celebrated with his Mum, Christmas Day morning was spent with his Dad, and then we hopped on a plane and jetted to Brisbane to make my Mum’s family lunchtime celebration. Boxing Day we caught up with my Dad’s family. Then we got on a plane and flew back to Sydney just in time to…well, collapse.
So this year, I decided to call in the time-honoured ‘Year On, Year Off’ clause enjoyed by most adult couples who a) have family interstate and b) dislike stale airport bagels for breakfast on Christmas Day.