Yesterday, Thanksgiving. Today, Christmas!
How did an entire month accelerate faster than it takes to ride the monorail, and why doesn't my husband think so? To him the month dragged by. How can two working people sharing one home experience the same bustling month so differently? Could it possibly be that Christmas, like most celebrations, comes at a woman's expense?
In years past, in order to fulfill the obligations the season demands (my family is medieval Italian), I focus on the finish line, getting through the holidays rather than celebrating. And last Christmas Eve, as a dear friend dropped off a gift without slowing down long enough to come inside, I remember thinking we exchanged gifts like change at a register, no time for the participation such finely wrapped boxes deserve. By January the season tapered off like smoke above my head, and relief was all I felt in its wake.
This season will be different. I won't do all of the "ought to's" (but I won't quite do none of them, either). Just saying these words makes for a flush of calm. I won't worry if relatives think Starbucks coffee is a fitting-enough gift, or that my mother won't appreciate the blown-glass ornament of the Space Needle. Or fret over the possibility my old college roommate will visit, flirt the way she always does when she drinks, fall in bed with a bartender down in Belltown, leave her despicable husband and move into the condo next door.
Here's the thing: I've lost patience for gift hunting and gathering. Save me from the disaster of all that guesswork. Nothing I need or want to give can be wrapped up.
However, for the people who have stood by me even when intimacy turned scary, our truest selves exposed, I promise to give more time, unconditional support and gratitude. Especially to the man who convinced me years ago to make room in my life to squeeze him in. And now the comfy-flannel that is us fits. He shows me every day how love can continue to grow like the philodendron that climbs our living-room wall and trails through the sleeping loft. And like those humble vines, thank god we've found a way to creep over the biggest hurdles without tangling up.
Onward to a bright New Year. And before we know it, spring! Forsythia flaring yellow, too alight to be true. Only it is true. Nothing cursory there.
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