So, what are you supposed to write when you have nothing to bitch about?
I wish I could tell you that we had a Christmas full of scandal and controversy, but it just didn't happen that way. Last year at this time, my ex had informed me that we'd just had "our last Christmas together." Fantastic, thanks for the heads-up! Grab a cookie on your way out!
This year? Better, to say the least.
No, it was better than better. It was the best Christmas I've had in a long time. I baked. I sang Christmas carols every day, even Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmastime," which seems to play every thirty seconds and usually annoys the crap out of me. I faithfully hid our Elf on the Shelf every night and got up at dark o'freaking clock every morning so that the Munchkin could show me where she found him.
I talked to people. Friends, relatives, parking attendants, whoever. I didn't hear anyone last year. They'd talk at me while I frantically brainstormed how to dodge the question, "So, how are you?" Every interaction was defined by things I couldn't say. It was like living inside a negative film strip.
I feel like I lived every moment of Christmas this year. It was all about cookies and egg nog for Santa. It was about that first early-morning glance at the presents, when you come downstairs and your entire house seems transformed and waiting.
Also, it was about violating some inflatable presents:
(This toy is clearly manufactured by a group of 15-year-old boys. "DUDE! I know where we can stick the air hole!")
It was about joy.
The real thing. Not the fake thing where you smile psychotically and scream "EVERYTHING IS F**KING GREAT!" whenever someone comes within ten feet of you.
Hypothetically speaking, that is. Ahem.
Hope your holidays were happy, everyone. I know mine were.