There’s an old saying in the medical community- that just around Thanksgiving and Christmas time a common phenomena occurs all over the United States: hordes of half-drunk people rush into the hospital believing they’re about to meet dear departed Grandpa due to a rapidly beating heart gone awry. They truly believe they’re on their death beds but not to fear, say the doctors, this isn’t anything to be concerned about – it’s just too much of the juice and an overabundance of revelry. It’s what they call “holiday heart”. But my version of Holiday Heart has nothing to do with ERs and everything to do with the batshit phenomena of ex-boyfriends and just-dating-one-week paramours who suddenly profess their undying love, ask to meet your parents and swear that 2008 is going to be the best year ever for us! Not so fast. Most of you probably believe the holidays show an entrance door to boyfriends and new loves wanting to head for the hills but in my world, the holidays bring out the crazy.

What is it with the holidays? I know it’s the time of the year when a lot of folks get depressed and engagements are made but apparently, it’s also the time of year when guys suddenly become your parents’ dream only to dart 2 weeks after the New Year’s champagne was consumed and the Christmas tree has been dragged to the sidewalk. Nobody wants to be left alone during the holidays so I suppose this is the reason for their professions of love but could they be a little less obvious? I recently had a break-up with someone that was relatively volatile. Thought I’d never hear from the little bougger again. But lo and behold, something happens in the male DNA when December 24th hits. And there it is. They’re back home with their family bored out of their minds, completely drunk after having consumed too many PBR’s with old high school friends and they look around the room with their hometown eyes realizing the local talent isn’t all that. Suddenly their holiday heart grips them in a fit of agony. You. Must. Call. Someone. From. LA. Or. New York. Call A Girl. And then out of the ever-living blue they call full of cheap beer and whatever else telling you how much they love you, miss you and how wrong they were only to wake up several days later thinking how they hell they’re going to get out of this one. Shit they think. It would be really crap to do this over the holidays so I’ll just string her along. Heck, she’s in Chicago, it’s not like she’s just down the street and then after the New Year when I’m back in town, I’ll find some reason to break up with her again.

In the meantime (meaning the time between fantasy and reality), there are countless flirtatious texts, fleshbot-worthy voicemails, illicit pictures and promises of trips to Napa “when we both get back” while Aunt Sue is yelling in the background for you to bring out the Ambrosia salad. Has anyone had Ambrosia? Seriously who invented this stuff. It’s like jello, marshmallows and slime. Not good.

But I can’t just chalk this up to the guys. Girls do it too and I’ve been known to make those same phone calls and texts – most recently while at Milo’s on the hill in St. Louis with my Mom and Dad after coming back from a rectory party with a bunch of nuns and priests. And that’s what does it. You’re in this bizarre state of suspended reality away from home and current friends which compels you to send the inevitable holiday heart text in a desperate attempt to connect with your old reality and current friends. But back to that rectory party. That night I asked my Dad if there were going to be any single people there and he told me there’d be a ton of single people. Not to worry. We were going to have a great time. When I got there, it was clear the general population was eligible for AARP and their devotion was to something else other than Saturday night dates and making whoopee. I looked at my Dad and asked for an explanation.

“Hey”, he said. “You asked if there would be single people here. You didn’t ask if they’d be available!”

(drum punch here).

Very funny Dad. Yes, they were all men and women of the habit. It was a rockin’ Friday night. But for the record, those people know how to party. Get a bunch of fun nuns and priests in a rectory filled wth Mogen David on a Friday night and you may just have some fun.

So I did it. I texted an old flame causing him to wonder what had caused my change of heart and I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was because I was forced to attend a party of crazy clerics and felt sorry for myself and the LA life I’d left behind and was, subsequently, desperate for a real-world connection.

In other words, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was just “holiday heart”.