As I talk to friends and read blog entries about trips to visit family for Thanksgiving, and decompress from the visit I just had from my ex-wife on her own way to a Thanksgiving feast with her new partner's family, I'm struck by the fact that while I feel melancholy, it's not over my family being gone, it's over not having a partner to share the holidays with. I'm a sentimental ninny -- I will go on a Christmas window outing every year, decorate a tree, see Handel's Messiah, and generally enjoy strolling around my East Village neighborhood streets where trees and lampposts are strewn with strings of little white lights and boutique after boutique offers the perfect gift for that hard-to-get-a-gift-for friend. The nip in the air, the smell of soup, fogged windows from warm bodies inside: all put a smile on my face. For me, the holiday season never led to suicidal states. It was always a Good month, annoyingly interrupted by a few one-day family events. Those days could be horrific, but I didn't generally blame the season for them. Family holidays have faded into background memory. My family of semi-choice is more fun. But this year, despite my life being good, and despite its being the fourth holiday season in a row that I'm single, it feels different. I think the fact that my life is good may be the reason my singleness is more problematic. These last few years, I have given the holidays far less recognition -- it's just not the same to go window watching or see a concert without a partner. This year for the first time, I'm feeling not OK with that dearth in my life. At the same time, there's a bittersweet taste to it -- I like that I'm feeling something, even if it's unsatisfying. I think that's a good sign. -- Philip F. Rose 2004