Every year I grapple less with the daunting fact that Christmas is just not as fun as a grown person as it is when you’re a child. I have accepted it, it’s a fact of life. Move on.
I don’t like the fact that December seems to be one of those months that chews you up and spits you out if you don’t plan accordingly, and in my line of business, it made for a lot of really late nights, really long days, and me and Aaron tearing down all our decorations last Sunday thinking, “What the hell just happened?”
Christmas time this year was just weird.
It was chaos, it was heartbreak, it was a lot of half-assed gifts (which is EXTREMELY out of character for me. I am that person who gets ulcers over picking out the perfect present.
This year I sat in my armchair, let my credit card do the work, and prayed I didn’t order a pile of crap. It was me forcefully trying to hang on to a little glimmer of nostalgia – crafting those smelly cinnamon ornaments like we used to when I was a kid and making pomanders and robotically baking dozens upon dozens of cookies with Reece’s cups jammed down inside them.