Label it hormonal. Label it middle age. Label it the holiday blues or seasonal affect disorder. Label me Ebenezer Spice or the Grinch(ette), but right at this very moment I don’t give a flying fruitcake.
Because what I’m labeling it is real.
Maybe it isn’t real for you, you or you over there in Everything’s Coming Up Rosesville, but it’s real for me … again at this very moment: Thursday, December 27, 1:44 p.m. (EST). And for the record, we even got a puppy for Christmas! (Okay, maybe technically not for Christmas, but the weekend of Thanksgiving, when the pressures and preparations of Christmas were already beginning to bubble and roil.)
A new puppy is only one of the many things (living and nonliving) I have to be thankful for. I am not a religious person, but I do my best to count my blessings every day for all that I have and have been given—especially the amazing people in my life. (Some of whom will possibly keep reading and still probably like me. Somewhat.) And yes, if you must know, I often look to the heavens while expressing said gratitude. The point is, I am cognizant of and respectful of how lucky I am.
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It's Friday, December 28, 3:09 p.m. (EST) and I’m feeling a touch less glum ... grumpy ... gweduck. (Gweduck is a word. It’s an alternate of geoduck, but nevertheless a word defined as a very large, burrowing, edible clam. Nails my present mood!) What I probably need for continued mood elevation is a good-natured talking to or a spinach salad with a light vinaigrette. Maybe both. Yes! What I need is somebody to constructively criticize me while my mouth is stuffed with leafy greens.
Or maybe what I really need is Bob Ross on roids. Because let me paint you a hasty picture of what’s on my mind:
I need a vacation to anyplace sunny. Not necessarily warm, but sunny, or I'll settle for one one-hundredth of a percent less bleak than the filthy tube sock of a sky I’m gazing at through the den window. Then again, who needs vitamin D when you’ve got an artificial Christmas tree adorned with several tangled strands of multi-colored lights, crowned with a single strand of purple lights your daughter insisted absolutely, positively must top the whole festive business? Tradition or protocol be damned, I might go right ahead and leave ‘er up ’til March. Or maybe, per tradition or protocol, I’ll rejoice in the opportunity to take down the sweet old gal all by myself this year! Why the fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la not?! I am quite skilled at single-handedly dismantling, organizing and hauling shiny-happy-heavy decorations to my basement. Sure, it’s a far cry from trekking Antarctica solo, but some might say I am truly winning the race at putting the wrap on Christmas.
While we’re on the subject of vacations, let me say how much I love hearing about your trip-of-a-lifetime travels to Maui, Melbourne, Milan, Madrid, Mumbai and more! The pictures are truly stunning. (Seriously, I do appreciate the globe-trotting posts and pictures, but forgive me when I say if I have to see one more shot of you snorkeling with a pod of baby orcas or you dining on espresso and cheese croquettes in gay Paris, I might blow up your feed with pics of me in yoga pants ingesting our remaining stash of holiday truffles and eggnog. All the way from our beautiful, over-budget shower in Portage, Michigan!)
Now that I’ve rained on your vacay humblebragging, I’ll pivot to gifting. If I tell you my husband and I don’t buy each other Christmas gifts, I mean my husband and I don’t buy each other Christmas gifts. Repeatedly asking me about it isn’t going to change that fact or guilt me into buying him Hugo Boss Bottled Tonic. If you want to buy your significant other something for the holidays—tiny or monumental, tailor made or off the rack—by all means, spoil him or her rotten. Please don’t chuckle nervously, laugh outwardly, tsk-tsk, avert your eyes, hint at a head shake, or otherwise worry your pretty little heads privately or publicly about our empty stockings.
Re: our daughter’s holiday haul, Santa and our entire family delivered! Four minutes and twenty-six seconds later she asked if she could look at our phones. Or watch these two darling siblings on YouTube make tub after tub after tub of glitter slime. The good news is, she’ll have a ton of brand spanking new stuff to play with by summer (give or take).
Before I bid you fare-the-well and hap-hap-happiest of New Year’s, let me add I respectfully decline your leftover baked goods, your perfectly prepared roast beast, your hot dips (because none will compare to my book club’s), your jellies and figgy puddings, and your candied yams. Do NOT take it personally! (Really, don’t.) It isn’t you. It's me. Trust me when I say I can always eat another bite and it pains me to waste food. If possible, donate to those who really need your surplus bounty.
Negative Nancied or Debbie Downered out yet? I promise my next post will contain at least one ample serving of unicorns and rainbows.
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| I give you unicorns and rainbows. (For real, this was awesome.) |
The older I grow, the more I’m beginning to understand how this season isn’t chock full o’ holly jolly for one and all, and sometimes that one and all includes me. Stress, anxiety, depression, insomnia, loneliness, sadness, loss, or as lame as it sounds, I’m-So-Over-It-Ness are legit side effects. And you or someone you love shouldn’t have to simply lighten up or get over it or grin and bear it, or nod and wistfully wink your cares away.
If you’re experiencing I’m-So-Over-It-Ness (or any or all the above realities), hang in there. Consider this a fist bump followed by a Christmas tree followed by a wrapped gift followed by a Mrs. Clause followed by a thumbs up from me to you.
Happy (really) Almost New Year!
Xoxo,
Amie
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