Matt Hazard

Ah, the holidays. Boxes of decor are dragged down from the attic, the malls are packed, and Michael Bublé is playing on repeat in the kitchen. The stage is set for another year of drink, way too many family gatherings, and the annual Christmas Eve tradition of getting pickled with my brothers in our childhood home on dad’s dime. Unfortunately, this year I was also booked to be at another fam jam early Christmas morning. And so, the troubles soon began.

Day One. Enter the Hazard family Christmas Eve party. Truly the one event that I actually look forward to each year. What started out as an innocent small gathering of three back in the 80s, my parents thought I could use a sister to split the fun with, but ultimately gave up after bringing in four more brothers. Fast forward a few decades, and all five boys and their plus ones venture back to ye olde homestead for a night of excessively loud Xbox Rockband and pinball in the basement. Everyone always brings something to the party, and this year we brought rum soaked cherries dipped in chocolate. The rest brought bottles. Our livers never stood a chance. It was sometime between 1am and 3am, long after our responsible wives went to sleep, that I remembered that I had somewhere to be in the morning…or at least I thought I did…didn’t I?

Day two. Sure as shit, after a whopping 3 hours and 47 minutes of sleep, the lights came on and I was ‘gently’ reminded that we had to go to someone’s grandparents house. I couldn’t tell you who’s, because I ultimately didn’t go. “Covid”, I mumbled. The trigger word that I’ve only used once before to get out of something when my irresponsibility prevented me from waking up. The bait was took, and I was turned loose back into a head pounding, Advil fuelled sleep. Ahh, bliss.

Day three. Feeling somewhat better, and fresh out of excuses, it was time for yet another scheduled meeting of blood relatives. Somehow they had heard the news of my ‘illness’. I told them I was feeling better, and honestly I was, even though feeling only slightly off from the party two nights prior. Drinks were served, I declined, and food was had. Sidebar – if I so much as look at one more freaking scoop of mashed potato, I’m going to start Lent early.

Day four. The last gathering of sorts. By this point I’m exhausted, I’m grumpy, and not hungry for any more home cooked meals. I go through the motions of smiling and choke out a laugh here and there, but I’m looking forward to home. When I get home, I’m still not hungry. And my throat hurts. The dogs running around the house is making me feel shaky. Even the 16 year old blind terrier who I’ve been calling Roomba because he bumps into a wall, spins around once and heads in another direction, is making me dizzy. A quick scraping of the nostrils confirms it. Covid. Fuck.

Now on the plus side, I don’t really have to feel guilty anymore for skipping Christmas Day. In fact, I’m a damn hero for not putting the grandparents through a nasty cold during the holidays. That’s the positive spin, the version that I choose to accept. The alternative way to look at it is that it’s possible that maybe I shouldn’t have drank quite so much and maybe not stayed up quite so late. Maybe. So, was getting Covid fate? Nah, I don’t really believe in that. Perhaps it was karma, after making up the excuse? Well, define excuse. Based on the known incubation period, I absolutely did have Covid when I claimed to…even though there was no way I could have known at the time due to a hangover that could drop a moose. Looking back, karma or not, ironically it was the liquor that spared grandma and grandpa that day. Sure, the rest of the family was exposed, but there are always a few casualties of war. What’s important, is that I don’t feel bad. About the grandparents. I mean it sucks for the ones who were exposed, but I’ll pour a little out for them tonight as I sip the last of the egg nog and pop a Buckleys.

Cheers!