Christmas comedown

Oh, sigh. It is that time of year again. After all the hustle and bustle... after the bags of shredded gift wrap... after the "things-that-make-you-go-huh?" Christmas presents... there comes... the comedown. It is so depressing when Christmas ends. The house just feels emptier. The spots where the presents were stashed are just voids where anticipation once hid. Soon the tree will be down, the decorations packed away, and the house will feel so blah. What's funny is that the house felt fine before we hauled out all the decorations...

The worst part of the Post-Christmas Depression for me is seeing all the discarded Christmas trees. All these trees were thriving in the wild; then they are suddenly cut-down to be hawked on street corners. The lucky ones make their ways into homes where families decorate and revere them and children find magic within their limbs. After December 25th, though, they become simple trash. No longer the beautiful centerpieces of homes, they become needle-shedding monstrosities that people dread dragging out to the curb. Over the next couple weeks, they are left for garbage trucks or just thrown on the sides of roads. I don't even know where all the trees and garlands that didn't sell go. Perhaps the big forest in the sky? I hope so. There was a majestic tree, probably 12-15" tall that a store down the road was trying to sell for a mere $199. After Christmas, it was still there. Was it really worth cutting a tree of that size down? Was there going to be some rush on giant Christmas trees? It just seems sad to me.

However, in an effort to call myself on my own hypocrisy, I will admit that S and I purchased a real tree for our first Christmas together. As I stare at it and worry about remembering to water it tonight so the house doesn't catch on fire, I know that in the next week or so we will have to get rid of it. In my defense, at least I will feel guilty when we do.

Skipping "all that David Copperfield crap"

I've lost track of the number of times I've died in my lifetime. If you think about it, we all probably have. The "me" who lived when I was 7 years-old is long gone. I don't even remember her. The me who lived when I was 13, 16, 21, 27, and 30 is also gone. I'm probably on Me Version 15 by now... or maybe Version 9... Version 22? Who really knows. Sometimes the thought of the vanishing me frightens me; other times I am sort of happy she is gone... or at least that parts of her are gone. The latest reincarnation of me isn't so bad. She came around in the summer of 2007. She experienced more hurt than any of the other me's, and she has emerged to be the strongest of all of them so far. This me has gone through a few other transformations this year, but it is still the same me. It's hard to explain, but I am sure it is even harder to understand; if you want to try, you are welcome to read this blog.

To be continued...