Things To Do On Christmas Day

Last Christmas, I found myself staring at a half-eaten tin of Quality Street at 3 PM, wondering if the "fun" was supposed to kick in at any moment. My uncle was asleep on the couch, snoring through the Queen’s Speech, and I was three mulled wines deep, debating whether to re-gift the candle my aunt had given me. It hit me then: Christmas Day is a weird, wonderful, and often awkward pressure cooker of expectations.

But here’s the secret: you don’t have to perform. The day is yours to bend, break, or just float through.

Embrace the Chaos of Gifts

Let’s be real: the moment of unwrapping presents is a minefield of fake smiles and genuine thrill. Don’t overthink it. If you get a pair of socks that look like a melted rainbow, wear them for ten minutes. (Yes, right there in the living room. It’s a performance, and you’re the star.)

If you’re the gift-giver, stop watching people’s faces. Seriously. Just hand them the box and walk away to refill your tea. The relief on their face when you’re not staring is priceless.

Pro-tip: have a "re-gift box" ready under the bed. Donate or hide that candle from your aunt without guilt—she bought it at a garage sale anyway.

Food: The Great Distraction

Christmas lunch is a marathon, not a sprint. You’ll burn your tongue on gravy, fight over the last roast potato, and someone will inevitably mention the Brussels sprouts “are an acquired taste.” (Hint: they’re not. Just drown them in bacon.)

Eat when you’re hungry, not when the clock says 2 PM. If you want a slice of cake at 10 AM, go for it. I once had a full Christmas pudding with custard at breakfast because I “felt it.” My family judged me, but I was happy.

And if you’re the chef? Delegate. Hand someone the oven mitts and say, “You’re in charge of the turkey now.” The paranoia of a dry bird is a well-known holiday hazard. Share the burden—or burn it together and laugh about it later.

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The "Boredom Hour" is Sacred

Around 4 PM, the sugar crash hits. The conversation dies. The dog starts chewing the tinsel. This is the golden moment: do nothing. Put on a terrible Christmas movie—the kind with talking reindeer and bad CGI—and nap through it.

This is also the perfect time to play a stupid board game. Monopoly will ruin your family, so stick with something quick like Uno or Charades. (I once made my brother act out "the ghost of Marley" by wrapping myself in toilet paper. It was chaotic and perfect.)

If you’re alone on Christmas? Embrace the solitude. Order takeout (Chinese food is a classic), binge a Netflix series, and text your friends memes. Irony is the best insulation against loneliness.

Escaping the Room

Let’s be honest: sometimes you need a break from your relatives. That’s fine. Walk the dog. Go for a "brisk walk" (read: a five-minute escape to the shed). Stand in the garden and stare at the sky for two minutes. Breathe.

I once hid in the pantry for ten minutes, eating a Terry’s Chocolate Orange while scrolling Twitter. It was the most peaceful part of my day. No guilt allowed—it’s self-care.

Best of What's Open on Christmas Day in New York

Pro tip: if you’re hosting, create a "quiet corner." A room with a closed door, a blanket, and a phone charger. Tell people, “This is the decompression zone. Enter at your own risk.”

Redefining "Perfect"

The perfect Christmas doesn’t exist. It’s a myth sold by Hallmark movies that show families laughing in matching pajamas. Real Christmas Day is messy. Someone will cry. The turkey will be dry. You’ll forget to buy cranberry sauce.

That’s the charm. The chaos is the memory. I still laugh about the year my dad set the napkin on fire trying to light a candle. It’s not perfect—it’s yours.

So, on this Christmas, do what makes you smile in the moment. Eat the third piece of pie. Hug the annoying cousin. Skip the Queen’s Speech if you want. The day is a blank canvas, and you’re holding the paint.

Go smudge it everywhere.