Page 1 of All About Christmas
From an early age , we’re taught to believe in the one.
Someone brought into this world just for you, to share the rest of your lives together.
Just look at what the fairy tales tell us: Snow White wakes up after being kissed by the prince—who she has known a shorter amount of time than it takes to ride a roller coaster.
And Prince Charming scours the entire kingdom to find the woman he danced with—for only two hours.
Meanwhile, the only heroine with a shred of independence, after rescuing the prince from the sea, quickly forfeits those points by trading her voice for a pair of legs—all to be with a man she has never spoken to.
All in the name of “love at first sight.”
As you hit your teenage years, that true-love movie concept sticks around, only now it’s repackaged into something more relatable.
A quarterback picks the waitress on roller skates in A Cinderella Story .
An awkward art girl ends up with the popular guy in She’s All That (but only after a makeover to meet the current beauty standards, of course).
And a maid finds her soulmate in a ridiculously wealthy politician in Maid in Manhattan .
Naturally, we all assume that the Dirty Dancing couple Baby and Johnny live happily ever after, because what relationship between a seventeen-year-old diplomat-to-be and an out-of-work dance instructor has ever gone wrong?
Yes, we’re conditioned for “happily ever after” from the get-go, spending our whole lives fixated on a man we haven’t even met yet.
After spending your twenties dumping guys because they didn’t fit the perfect picture—something was just missing or because they were simply toxic—you start to wonder if the idea of love you’ve clung to for most of your life is even remotely accurate.
The truth is, you can’t escape a love life riddled with disappointments. Let’s face it: no man is ever going to look at you and say, “You had me at hello.”
Or anything close to whatever romantic fantasy equivalent you’ve dreamed up over the years.
You’re not going to end up with that rock star you loved during your emo phase and whose posters covered your bedroom walls in such a way that it almost looked like wallpaper.
And by the time you’re staring down the big three-o—the age you once thought you’d have it all figured out—you decide it’s time for a different approach.
You pick up the phone and call a guy who’s always shown a bit of interest, but who you secretly found a little boring. Because honestly, you’re just tired of waiting for mister perfect.
And that’s how I ended up here: in a restaurant with someone who is disturbingly similar to a scoop of vanilla ice cream—nice enough, but not particularly exciting—listening to stories about his accounting business.
“So I tell this guy, ‘You have to submit the annual figures or it won’t prove anything.’ And do you know what he said in return?” Steven asks, cutting a piece of steak, carefully soaking it in wine sauce and putting it into his mouth.
“No—” I start, but he cuts me off again.
“He said that he would decide that for himself.” A tad aggressively he starts to shew, his jaw muscles working hard enough to make his cheeks shift.
He cuts off another piece of steak, his blond bangs bouncing with the movement.
He is handsome. Handsome enough to make me forgive the fact that he’s been ranting about his clients for ten minutes straight.
“So I tell this guy, ‘Well, then you can kiss that financing goodbye.’” He gives me an expectant look, as though he’s waiting for a pat on the back.
His eyes glint in the candlelight that a cheery waitress just lit for us.
When the validation he’s hoping for doesn’t come, he presses on.
“So then I showed him the door. If he won’t let me do my job, I’m not interested, simple as that.
” Somehow, I expected this date to go exactly like this: long, uninteresting stories about accounting and few questions asked.
Steven is someone who talks a lot and mercilessly fills any incipient silence with stories about his two passions: accounting and Katherine Heighl.
The first fifteen minutes felt like a tribute to the actress, whom I’ve known for her role in Grey’s Anatomy. I now knew her age, the names of her kids, and that her career had been unfairly cut short.
So why did I say yes to this date? I felt like I owed him a chance. Ever since we met at a party, he’s asked me out multiple times. He’s cute with his blond hair and dark green eyes, so appearance-wise there wasn’t an issue.
The issue is that I still seem to believe that falling in love should feel like an emotional rollercoaster.
That the whole hot-and-cold game is what love is supposed to feel like.
That I confuse extreme highs and lows with passion, when really, they’re just unhealthy and ridiculously stressful.
Steven is not like that. Steven is steady.
Steven is like a scoop of vanilla ice cream, not rocky road.
With him, you know exactly what to expect with every bite and you don’t risk choking on unexpected chunks of marshmallows or hazelnuts.
“So Holly, when did you decide to dye your hair pink?” He picks a fry from the plate sitting between us and dips it in the mayo.
“Oh, um…” I sweep my hand through my hair, suddenly a lot more aware of the colour. “I wanted something different.”
Steven nods understandingly. “ Different looks good on you. Although I must say, I like blondes best. That’s one of the seven beauties, you know, blonde hair and blue eyes.
” He puts the fry in his mouth and then knocks the salt off his hands before taking a sip of his merlot.
“But I think you’re one of those people who looks good in everything,” he adds with a wink.
I’m not really sure how to respond. It’s quite clever to package an insult as a compliment.
Or a compliment as an insult. No idea actually which of the two it is, but because of Steven’s flirtatious smile, I assume the latter.
Therefore, the corners of my mouth curl up and I mutter a “thank you,” although I’m pretty sure the combination of dark hair and blue eyes is among the seven beauties.
“You work at that one TV show that always airs around Christmas, right?” Steven has decided to devote the second half of our evening to me. Or at least the next five minutes.
“Yes, right,” I reply. “It’s called All About Love .”
“Oh, yes, that!” Steven nods. “And what do you do there?”
“I’m an editorial assistant,” I say. “But I hope to advance to editor soon. My boss says I have a good chance.” Satisfied, I take a bite of my mushroom risotto.
“Hm, interesting. Indeed, I can imagine you don’t want to be an assistant for the rest of your life.”
I want to open my mouth to say that being an assistant is not a bad thing at all. That it’s also a profession in which I can do my best, but wisely I keep my trap shut, thus also saving him a view of the chewed risotto.
Although, it is true that I am outgrowing this position.
I would like to come up with the ideas instead of correcting and arranging the editor’s preferences.
It would be wonderful to work on one of my own choices from among all the wishes and dreams sent in to be fulfilled at Christmas.
While I do get to filter the mail we receive, nine times out of ten, the same thing is chosen: a shy boy who wants to take the girl from the local bakery on a date.
Not only is it endearing, but it also produces situations that a few days later occupy a glorious spot on top five trending video lists.
“True,” I finally agree with him, “you don’t want to be someone’s assistant all your life.”
“So I had a promotion last year,” Steven proudly proclaims. “So nice to get recognition for your hard work. Just tap-tap-tap, right up that ladder, you know.” He makes a running motion with his index and middle finger to illustrate his story.
I can just barely disguise my laughter with a cough and take a sip of my wine.
“So no worries,” he adds with a wink. “I’ll pay.”
The feminist in me wants to shout that I’m perfectly capable of paying for my sticky rice with fried mushrooms myself, but since my salary is roughly equivalent to that of a bikini salesman at the North Pole, I’ll shut up.
A silence falls and just as Steven is about to fill it with probably a story about pay scales in the financial sector, I am startled by a familiar voice.
“No way! Holly!”
I look up, straight into the face of my colleague, Maud, from the marketing department. With a surprised twinkle in her eye, she watches the scene, her gaze lingering on Steven just a little too long.
“What are you doing here? I thought you said you were going to your father’s birthday today.”
“No, that’s next week,” I say.
“Oh, okay. I guess I haven’t been paying attention again.
” Maud smiles broadly and fidgets with the pin she used to arrange her blonde hair into a tousled bun on her head.
She drops her hand down to her side again.
“Looks delicious. I was just about to pick up a pizza here. Ever since Ben dumped me, I’ve been trying to tell myself that I can eat out by myself just fine, but I haven’t dared until now.
” She chuckles, shaking her head, and looks at Steven again out of the corner of her eye.
“Oh, sorry,” I say quickly and gesture to Steven. “Maud, Steven. Steven, Maud.” I wave my hand between them in order to introduce them to each other.
Maud holds out her hand and Steven looks at her in such wonder that he falls silent for the first time all evening.
I decide this is a good time to take another sip of wine.
“Good. Well. Then, um… I’ll just go get my order,” Maud says with a shy smile.
“Bon appetit in advance,” I say and poke an oyster mushroom with my fork.
“Thank you.” She casts one last, almost disappointed look at my date. Just when she’s about to turn around again, Steven stops her.
“Why don’t you join us?” he asks, grabbing her by the wrist before she can walk away.
The bite of risotto that I was about to eat lingers in the air for a moment as I watch the action, before ultimately disappearing into my mouth.
Maud remains standing and looks at me hesitantly. “Oh, no,” she says. “No, no. I don’t want to disturb you. I just wanted to—”
“Ah, nonsense!” He waves his hand to reinforce his words.
I stop chewing for a moment as, wide-eyed, I watch Steven conjure a chair from somewhere and slide it up to our far-too-small table.
“We’d love for you to,” he continues. “And if all has gone as planned, your order’s already ready, so you can just eat it here.”
Maud bites her lip and bounces up and down, but ultimately folds. “Oh… Well, um… Well then,” she stammers. She drapes her coat over the back of the chair, sits down and looks from Steven to me and back again.
“This does feel a little strange, eating together like this,” she giggles.
I don’t have it in me to tell her that it not only feels strange, but that it is strange. So strange that I still haven’t moved on to the first step of ensuring healthy digestion: namely, chewing the bite that is still in my mouth.
“Say,” Steven leans slightly toward Maud and throws his napkin on the table.
I blink my eyes a few times, needing a moment to process what is happening here right now.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Katherine Heighl?”