Much has been made of the fact that I have spent quite a few Christmastimes, as an adult, alone. Usually, this much-making is accompanied by the sort of noise that people make on hearing about dead kittens or any of the world's other injustices, and yet I am here to tell you that it's not half bad, this solitary merrymaking.

For one thing, this year I'm not alone. Six rabbits and a bull mastiff. How this qualifies as alone when I barely have time to let the sofa hit my ass between meals and walks and grooming is beyond me. For the other, I don't believe you've ever lived until you've stood out in your backyard at twilight on a Christmas Eve, warmed by the lambent glow of your neighbors' fairy lights, waiting on a dog to finish his business, staring up at the lavender and coral sunset with a flashlight in one hand and a martini in the other. No sir, I don't regret a moment of it.

The Romantics (the group of 18th century British authors and painters, not the 80s new-wave band) had a term for moments like these, when the soul escapes the body and is able to join in with the ebb and flow of nature and the world, when the self falls away in the face of stark raving mortality and blends seamlessly with time, space and a complete lack of other human beings. They termed these moments sublime. As indeed they continue to be, 100-plus years later.

(English majors. We're assholes who all now generally work in finance and tend to go on at length about little-known and lesser-cared-for facts. You have two options: run, or drink hard and try to keep up.)

Anyway, I don't feel like this moment is an instance of the sublime per se, as much as flipping over in a whitewater kayak is, or losing your grip on the ceiling. These are both moments where the defining emotion is one of a profound loss of control, that circumstances have been wrenched from your hands by forces of nature and you have no idea what the world will look like a few seconds from now. No. Christmas Eve in this manner is much more an instance of completeness, the completeness of solitude without loneliness. All my needs are met, I want for nothing. I am free to enjoy the simple pleasures of life: warm clothes, a good dog, the open sky, this bigass martini.

In my early 20s I can remember Christmases totally unlike these, either mad dashes on turbulent flights to the UK, or being depressed about not being able to make that mad dash, either for work or financial reasons. In my later 20s I spent some Christmases (Christmasi?) dashing around to make other people happy. Notable is the one time I turned up at my Dad's house and was forced to listen to my weird step-uncle describe the last snuff film he'd seen. Festive!

And then I just let go of it all, and forgave myself for not going home, and looked around a little.

Every day for me is a holiday of some sort. At some point I grew a big ole spine and threw out all the people who annoyed me, and now I have a cavalcade of amused and amusing pets, and a small cadre of good friends who I cherish and friends I'm looking forward to spending more time with. A roof over my head, and a job where the thought of work does not make me homicidal. No impending surgery, the ability to walk around in these socks, to read books with these eyes that work, to hear late-night college radio fill this house and pumpkin-curry risotto filling my belly.

I spent Christmas being thankful for many things, including not having to go near an airport, and when I think about "going home" for it, I look around at these pets these books these lights this soup and I know I am already there.

And if that doesn't convince you, remember: the Victorians thought Christmas was the best possible time for ghost and horror stories! My BA is framed and available for viewing by appointment.