Mistletoe and Whine: the myth of the party season

All of twitter is ascribing way more meaning to a bloody red paper cup than there could ever possible be, John Lewis is trying to make us cry with nostalgia over a childhood we never had and the coke cans have Santa on them; it must be Christmas. Soon shop shelves will be heaving with the bumper December issues of our favorite glossies and whichever one you plump for, you can be sure of one thing: the ubiquitous Party Season articles. The Party Season is the time of year in which all twenty something women have so many exciting soirees to attend that their only priorities are getting from the office to the bar with minimal outfit change, hiding a hangover at work and not wearing the same outfit twice.

It’s been mentioned a couple of times on twitter in the last few days but I’m going to come right out and say it. THIS MYTHICAL PARTY SEASON DOES NOT EXIST. As a teenager I pored over these festive issues, dreaming of the day when I too would be flitting about covered in glitter with invites bursting out of my expensive handbag. Oh happy days! Well whaddya know, I’m a (fairly) successful 26 year old and I spend December lying on the sofa in my boyfriends hoody while the cat tries to eat my leftover pizza. Every year the disappointment of this discrepancy between my actual and imagined lives hits hard. Surely everyone except me is having a wildly exciting time, or else why would the magazines keep printing these articles? Surely not just to keep women feeling inadequate in order to convince them that buying more things will help them achieve this aspirational lifestyle! For older women the pressure is on to create the perfect Christmas for their families whilst hand making everything, rearing your own turkey and gift wrapping everything to match your perfectly decorated tree. For us, it’s to have more fun than anyone else has ever had, ever.

Let’s think about it. Even if I did buy a selection of beautiful dresses and expensive make up I’d only ruin them all when I fall over in the street drunk, throw hideously coloured cocktail down myself in my friends kitchen or sit crying in the toilet because nobody likes my shoes. Oh, how I laughed when I watched it as a teenager but it turns out that Spaced really was an accurate portrayal of most of the parties you go to in your twenties.

I don’t know, perhaps it’s just me and the rest of you spend the whole of December in a sort of Gatsbian haze of alcohol and alarmingly beautiful people. Perhaps if I was a high flying lawyer in the City my life would be much more like the magazines suggest, although if I was going to that many parties I’m not really sure when I would get a chance to read the magazines in the first place. Don’t get me wrong; I love sparkly dresses and I (mostly) love glossy magazines with their lovely shiny images. Just know that when you’re feeling like a loser for reading them while eating the remains of the Quality Streets & watching re-runs of Morecambe & Wise: you are not alone.

(thanks to Sophie for inspiring this train of thought!)