Too Much Christmas

Hello, Ms J. You're probably wondering where I've been. Why no New Year's post? What's become of my daily reports and musings, lately? There was a time when you could rely on something new here. Every day brought a new incite into my daily challenges and struggles. So what's happened, then? Have I forsaken you, Ms J? Left you for another woman? Fallen ill? No. None of that. I'm fine, really. Just tired. Exhausted.

First, let me tell you how tired I am of Christmas, how sick I am of it.

Christmas is, for us Christians, the most holy day of the calendar. It's a special day. It's the day we remember and celebrate the birth of Christ, the "reason for the season." Christmas comes but once a year. That keeps it feeling special. But lately, it seems, the season lasts a full two months. Retailers start replacing Halloween decorations with Christmas ones in their stores as soon as October closes. Witches and ghosts flee the shop windows and Santa arrives immediately with his reindeer to take their places.

Personally, Christmas begins with a growing unease about having to venture out into the bowels of retail Hell to select useless gewgaws for people who don't need them. These "gifts" must be wrapped and stored until the obligatory social gatherings where the noise of crowds and kids and family and ...

I sound like Ebenezer Scrooge, don't I? I don't care.

This year, I had Christmas at least four times: I entertained my siblings and their families at my home. I participated in a Christmas dinner at Colleen's mum's place with about twenty adults and kids. I spent Christmas morning with Colleen and Ivy. And only yesterday, I celebrated again with Colleen's family, watching while grandkids opened gifts from aunts and uncles and grandparents.

I don't know about you, Ms J, but to me, there's nothing special about a Christmas that lasts two months and is celebrated four times. It's no longer something to be enjoyed, but rather something to be endured.

I'm sick of it. I'm completely exhausted. I rarely sleep in my own bed anymore. I'm here in Windsor or beside Colleen in her bed. (She got a new bed for Christmas, by the way, so it's not as uncomfortable as it used to be.) It just seems to me that I've been running non-stop for months now. I have no time to blog here. No time for my personal journal. I even e-mailed the bloody thing to myself in the hope of accessing it while I'm in Windsor. But this morning, when I tried to open it, I discovered that the hotel computers have an older version of MS Word and my journal won't open. Always busy, I am, but accomplishing nothing.

My eyes are half-closed. My head feels fuzzy. My arms and legs are heavy. And speaking of heavy ... I can't imagine how much weight I've gained lately.

Blah. Christmas is over, finally, and I say good riddance. My New Year's resolution ought to be to regain control of my Life. To lose weight. To slow down. To take rest and rediscover my calm centre. I ought to resolve to find Life's rhythm again.

And I won't find it by dashing off madly in all directions.

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