It’s beginning to look a lot like…meh.
It’s the most wonderful time of the…meh.
Jingle meh, jingle meh, meh meh meh meh meh.
I gave up on Christmas this year, just couldn’t do it. The only reason the house is even a little decorated is because Tom and the boys did it one Sunday afternoon while I battled the hordes for groceries. Christmas cards will be Groundhog Day Greetings if I’m lucky, and I have not baked nor consumed a single Christmas cookie. I do, however, have a wicked craving for latkes. Happy Hanukkah.
I have nothing against Christmas, per se. Just a intense holiday ennui. A complete ambivalence towards the season.
About this time last year we knew we were moving, and started the soul-sucking process of culling/packing/moving everything we own a thousand miles east. The year before that we were in “who is gonna snap and end up on CNN first” mode. So around Thanksgiving I waved the white flag and called it quits with 2011. We’re amicably separated right now (though not really); divorce will be final in around 11 days or so. I may pop a cork to celebrate.
There is just so much going on right now that not only can I not find any holiday spirit with two hands and a flashlight, but mustering up good cheer is a feat not worth attempting.
It’s not depression, it’s a chronic case of meh. I don’t even feel bad that I don’t give a damn, and usually I’m wracked with holiday-induced guilt.
Oh, and if someone doesn’t break the truth about Santa to my sons I’m going to snap and scream it in a fit of frustration. That will win me Mother of the Year, in a year when I had sooooooooooo many other epic parenting fails in the running.
And true to how this year has been going, two paragraphs I thumbed on my iPhone have disappeared. Something about remembering the reason for the season and that I’d rather just buy a birthday cake.
So. Meh. Holidays. Eat, drink, be merry.
And please may I have a Mulligan because no one should be meh about Chriatmas.