I hate the holiday season. Hate it with an undying passion of a thousand suns. It does absolutely nothing for me except turn me into a cranky, bitchy, annoying miser. So what, you’ll probably ask, could turn a sweet little girl into such a hardnosed grouch?

Family. Simple as that. The holiday season means I have to spend an inordinate amount of time with my family. I remember a time when I used to love being around them. I’d look forward to it. I mean, granted that time was probably before I got into my teen years but there was still that time. For as long as I can really remember, the holiday season meant having absolutely nothing to do other than spend pretty much all of my waking hours with my family.

I come from a very small family. It’s just my parents, my brother (who is unfortunately incarcerated and has pretty much on his own since I was 5-ish), and me. We have no family close in the area. My paternal grandmother is so far into the depths of Alzheimer’s that she doesn’t recognize her own children. My maternal grandparents live in Florida, 2000 miles away from my parents and me. I could say I’m sad about that, but quite frankly as time as progressed the generational gap has grown to a point that we have absolutely no common experiences. I can’t talk to them about school because they don’t understand the intensity of law school. I can’t talk to them about current events because they think everybody is out to screw the old people. I can’t talk to them about my friends because they judge them. I’ve tried talking to them for more than five minute intervals and it just makes my brain pulse with pain.

And my parents? Ah, here we have the root of my hate of the holidays. I go to school 35 minutes away from my parents so pretty much as soon as classes and finals end every semester they expect me to drive right home and return to the bosom of my childhood home. It’s a place I’ve just simply grown out of at this point. My warm fuzzy feelings when I get there last about twenty minutes and then I want to leave. That’s about the time it takes for annoyance at pretty much everything they do to set in. My mother picks at the things I eat. She says I wear too much make up, but when I wear next to none she laments I look 12 years old and I’ll never attract a husband (Newsflash, Mom! Ever considered I may want a wife?) I’m subjected to rant after rant about the state of American politics and expected to agree that homosexuals don’t deserve to marry or have the same rights as “normal God-fearing people.” My dad is the sane one of my parents. He understands I have my own life and that if I want to go do something, I have every right to. My mother wants to tag along and see what I’m doing 24/7. She still asks me when I’m going to be home if I go out … at 2pm … to shop. God forbid I want to actually do anything with friends at night when I’m home.

Okay, I know. I’m really grateful to have parents who care. Don’t get me wrong, I completely agree. I’m grateful for the opportunities they’ve given me and the lifestyle I’ve had my whole life. I just don’t like being reminded of it every five minutes it seems. Or have my college degree put down because it didn’t come from the school they both graduated from.

But what about the holiday season particularly emphasizes all this? The close quarters. The weeks I’m off of school and expected to hang out with them every moment. I’m talking over a month. It’s the whole spirit of the season they expect me to get into, though we don’t do anything in the way of holiday parties, gifts or decorations. A few years ago I received an electronic toothbrush, an office chair and a calendar for Christmas. “But you need those!” as my mother exclaimed when I expressed my frustration. Yes, Mother, I did. But in my mind Christmas isn’t about getting people things they “need.” It’s about gifting them with something they’d otherwise not get for themselves. It’s about asking them what they want. Not necessarily lavish presents, but something out of the ordinary. We’re just not a big Christmas gift family at all. My parents think practical; I think unusual. The best present my father received lately? I gave him tax software still wrapped in the bag from the big box electronics retailer and he just about did a jig. This year I’ve requested cash instead of anything tangible. We’ll see if my request is honored.

This year my mother is prodding me to go on vacation with them to a small house they recently purchased in Florida about ten minutes away from my grandparents. Five years ago I would have jumped at the opportunity. Florida in January? Heck, that has to be better than Illinois in January. But then I took a step back and looked at my options. Spend New Years and the two weeks afterward in glorious solitude. Absolute silence. Nobody nagging me, telling me to be grateful. Nobody bugging me that I don’t like spinach, so why am I ordering it? Those two weeks I could work and make money that supposedly I need to save according to them anyways. Two week holiday vacation with my parents? Sorry, Mom but I think I’ll pass this time. Even if it is my last real winter vacation from school.

But the absolute worst thing about the winter holiday season? Christmas music. I just can’t stand the crap. It makes me get a little twitchy. I’m the one walking in the aisles at stores in December with a shaking hand and a twitchy eye.

If you love spending with time with your family during the holiday season, congratulations. You’re a stronger person than me. If you coo over Cousin Sophie’s new baby and sit around telling war stories with Grandpa Mike, enjoy! I’m not trying to discourage people from enjoying what they enjoy about the holiday season. I am saying that there those among us who absolutely despise the season. We’d rather be working and making money than spending time with the families we’d prefer not to see. We’re the ones who turn ugly holiday sweaters and don’t bother with wrapping presents when we’re forced to give them. The misers. The grinches. We’re out here and we’re real.