On Being Single When Everything Smells Like Cinnamon

by vara Giannakopoulos

art by lauren mallett

There's something about the first crisp morning in October that triggers an almost Pavlovian response in the perpetually single. Perhaps it's the way scarves begin appearing around necks like relationship status indicators, or how every coffee shop suddenly transforms into a backdrop for potential romance. The air grows thick with possibility and the faint scent of artificial pumpkin spice, and suddenly you're hyper-aware of your empty coat pocket where someone else's cold hand could fit.

This heightened awareness of one's singlehood arrives like clockwork with the changing leaves, settling in somewhere between seasonal depression and an inexplicable urge to buy everything with nutmeg in it. It's as if the universe conspires to remind you that you're facing the cozy season solo—again—through an endless parade of increasingly intimate holidays.

Halloween kicks off this grand theatrical production of seasonal longing. What was once a holiday for scoring free candy has somehow morphed into an endless stream of couple's costumes flooding your social media. Each scroll reveals another pair of perfectly coordinated outfits, while you're left contemplating whether your cat would tolerate being the Garfield to your Jon Arbuckle.

Then comes Thanksgiving, a holiday theoretically about gratitude but actually an annual symposium on your dating life. There's nothing quite like explaining your single status to relatives while passing dishes of stuffing around a table, each "taking time to focus on myself" met with knowing looks and promises that "it'll happen when you least expect it." (Spoiler: you're always expecting it now.)

The months October to December become a gauntlet of romantic opportunities that feel specifically designed to remind you of your solitude. Mother Nature herself seems to be playing matchmaker, dropping the temperature just enough to make cuddling not just desirable but practically necessary for survival. The winter dating scene becomes its own special kind of sport, where layering becomes an extreme challenge. How does one appear casually alluring while wrapped in enough fabric to survive an arctic expedition? The answer, my friends, involves a delicate balance of style and survival, usually resulting in what I like to call "sexy yeti chic." Holiday markets spring up like matchmaking venues disguised as shopping destinations. Every stall of handcrafted goods becomes a potential meet-cute location, each purchase weighted with the possibility that maybe—just maybe—this will be the moment someone reaches for the same fuzzy socks.

Even the most mundane activities take on a romantic sheen. Grocery shopping becomes an exercise in wishful thinking: buying ingredients for two, just in case the universe decides to send someone special your way mid-recipe. You find yourself lingering in wine aisles, pretending to read labels while actually scoping out other solo shoppers who might be similarly seeking both a good $4 Cabernet and a lasting connection.

And let's not forget the pinnacle of seasonal singlehood: New Year's Eve. That magical night when the pressure to find someone to kiss at midnight transforms normally reasonable adults into desperate romantic prospectors, panning for gold in bars that smell like regret and cheap champagne. You'll find yourself strategically positioning yourself near the least threatening-looking stranger as the countdown begins, mentally rehearsing how to make a midnight kiss with a complete stranger seem both spontaneous and sanitary.

One benefit to being single during the holidays? You can buy those fancy advent calendars without sharing. Twenty-five days of chocolate all to yourself while you swipe through dating apps? That's not lonely, that's what I call strategic planning.

In the end, this particular holiday season is a little different. While everyone else is navigating tense political discussions over turkey and trying not to flip tables at relatives defending the indefensible, you're free to spend your holidays exactly as you choose. There's something deliciously satisfying about replacing traditional romantic festivities with radical self-preservation—especially in a year when half the country made it brutally clear whose humanity they consider negotiable. And if anyone asks about your dating life this holiday season, just smile and say you're too busy creating the future you deserve to settle for someone who'd vote against it.