I just am not into holidays, so please don’t come around looking for suggestions on how to place tinsel on the cat or get the dog to wear a Santa suit without shredding it or your face.
Christmas was my mom’s show. Until her unexpected passage when I was nine, it ran like clockwork and brought joy to all. Afterwards, not so much. What was supposed to be joyful, or at least civilized, descended into a chaotic swirl of bad behavior leaving me with sour memories and a ton of resentment for getting too many celebration related tasks dumped on me too early. December ends up being a month-long attack of PTSD for me.
In adulthood, I followed suggestions to cope–volunteer work, letting others do the planning and entertaining, singing in recitals. Still, they left me feeling hollow and unfulfilled. So I opted out of the observations, preferring to practice acceptance instead.
If I could, I’d check myself into a Buddhist monastery until the 30th. New Year’s I like, but the rest of it is not to my taste.
However, I would be unable to take Oakley with me, so that’s out of the question. I will content myself with Netflix, DVDs, and internet radio without the incessantly grinding demands to be HAPPY and JOYFUL and all that.
If you are into Christmas, may this be the best one ever for you and yours. And if things get too overwhelming, you’re welcome to join me and Oakley behind the love seat.