So, all was going as planned. Slept in ’till 8! Tidied up the apartment! Got out Christmas Decorations! But, wait, they all smelled. Like ass. It didn’t occur to me that a) the storage closet would smell and b) that smell would infect everything. Oh, but it did!

And from there it all kind of went downhill. The Santa glasses that I inherited from my Grandma after she passed away–one was broken. There’s really no place in this apartment to put my teeny fake tree. There’s weird brown goo on some of my snowman plates. Everything I’ve attempted to put out looks… cluttered and stupid.

I think the past few Christmas seasons have all kind of built up into this one. See, Christmas has always been my favorite time of year–I get excited way, way in advance. It means a trip to each grandparents, it means It’s A Wonderful Life on Christmas Eve, it means music, food, and family. The past few Christmases have meant less and less family for a variety of reasons. It has meant a bittersweet tinge at the edge–more and more each year.

It’s that quarter-life crisis–that weird spot between child and adult. I don’t have children and R. and I are always busy trying to fit our own families in–and perhaps a bit of each others. We might have a “Christmas” dinner and we open each other’s gifts, but the bulk of our holiday is still as child–child to our parents and grandparents. Which would be fine–except it’s not the same.

So, getting out this Christmas stuff has left me feeling mostly sad and leaving the job 1/2 (or 2/3) unfinished. So, I think instead of all those grand plans I am just going to lie in bed and watch episodes of Project Runway I have seen 10 times and make Thanksgiving dessert–should my Mom ever send me the recipe–because baking does solve everything.