Something weird happened between the time I started composing this blog entry and the time I’m getting around to posting it. I’ll start with what I meant to finish writing a few days ago but, for lack of a better excuse, didn’t, probably because I was too busy eating Tim Horton’s chicken noodle soup and doing the only Christmas-y thing that appealed to me at that point—listening to my favourite holiday song, “Santa Claus’ Party,” on repeat.
21 December 2015, YYC
Twitter marks my arrival in Calgary by sending me an e-mail suggesting that I follow Bob McKenzie (Canadian hockey commentator) and Stephen Harper.
Greetings from the Calgary airport! My husband and I are in the middle of our second layover—this one is over three hours, delightfully long, while the first, in Chicago, was nail-bitingly short, partially due to a delay out of Charlotte. We’re hopping our way from North Carolina, where we were visiting my parents-in-law, to BC, where we’ll visit my parents-by-birth.
I should take advantage of this time to provide y’all with a long-overdue and unwelcomingly detailed update on my crazily exciting life, but I had a seizure last evening, hit my head, and am trying to rest AMAP. (As Much As Possible. The best abbreviations are those that no one would understand if you didn’t explain them.)
Instead, a few musings on my unexpected attitude toward Christmas this year.
Actually, one mammoth, multi-part musing. In sum, in a sharp departure from how I usually approach the Christmas season, in 2015, I haven’t been able to muster up the energy to care more than your average holiday-tolerator. I put up a tree, yes, but only because I felt like I should, and I didn’t over-decorate the rest of our apartment as I usually do; I haven’t sent Christmas cards yet (they might have to be New Year’s notes); I haven’t really thought about gifts, a process that usually gives me great pleasure and have concluded mid-month; and I genuinely don’t care about receiving gifts.
I’m convinced that we can probably place at least some of the blame for my reluctance to engage in my normal hyper-levels of seasonality on the ill-timing of my hospitalization: November is usually when I begin celebrating inappropriately early, and being confined to a hospital room during this critical period surely had some sort of psychological affect on my ability to get in the Christmas spirit. We’ll call this CAD (NART) [Christmas Affective Disorder (Not a Real Thing)].
23 December 2015, YYJ
It is now the morning after a great day that culminated in going for an absolutely amazing dinner—French 75s are festive, right?—and seeing an incredible production of A Christmas Carol with my parents and husband. (My father admitted to crying several times throughout the show because he was so moved.)
Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas.
Don’t worry, Husband: I still don’t care about the presents. As long as you secretly bought me the pony that I asked you for in a dream.
And in case I don’t get around to writing another entry before the big day, a very good possibility given the ways of my brain in recent times: Merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate, and Happy Excuse-to-Spend-Extra-Time-with-Family-on-Your-Employer’s-Dime to those who don’t. I wish you a healthy, joy-filled, gluttonous, and peaceful twenty-four hours (and life, minus the gluttony).