Chloe and I were talking the other day about the fact that Christmas has snuck up on all of us this year. I’m not entirely sure how that could be true — it’s not as if we’ve all been unusually busy recently, although we’ve certainly had more than our fair share of nonsense to take care of (To be fair, we kind of did it to ourselves, getting a puppy that was roughly three months old and then having to deal with the reality of that. That’s hardly been the most relaxing thing) — and yet, somehow, it is. It’s Christmas Eve already. How did that happen?
There are so many things that I feel I haven’t done, or done enough of. I haven’t listened to enough Christmas music — although, to be fair, I don’t think there’s an upper limit of “enough” for some Christmas songs — and I haven’t had enough mincemeat and pretended that I was actually interested in the whole pie instead of the chopped fruit innards. I haven’t had stollen at all, even. What have I actually been doing with my month?
The answer to that is, in many cases, equally seasonal: we did get to go downtown to enjoy what passes for Portland’s Christmas lights this year (a mall Santa waved to me, and I was as thrilled as if I was a kid again); we did watch an outrageous amount of holiday movies and television shows, and there was much shopping and wrapping and prepping for the big day itself. There are worse ways to spend the month leading up to Christmas, and I don’t really regret any of it at all. I just wish there was more time.
This, of course, is the truth about the holidays and getting older. You realize that it’s not about the day as much as it’s about the lead-up to the day — the weeks and days covered by the advent calendar, with everyone filled with anticipation and excitement about what’s to come. The older you get, the less you can even plan which presents you want, never mind look forward to getting everything on your list; you just want to embrace the season and believe in the goodwill, however shortlived it may be.
Happy holidays, if you celebrate.