So, for the past three days I've been writing and deleting, writing and deleting, writing and deleting because nothing is coming out right. It's not that I'm in a writers slump, believe me, I have a lot to say. It's just trying to say what I have to say without sounding scrooge, bah-humbug or overly sarcastic. This is, after all, the season of 'nice'. And I want to make sure I project nice in a most...well, nice way.
The thing is, it is a most true, unfortunate and sad fact that I'm just not really that into Christmas anymore(insert 'gasp' here). I know, I know, for shaaaaaaaame. It's not that I don't want to celebrate the birth of our Lord, who walked the earth preaching the gospel, performing miracles and then died for ME. I do, I really, really do. But my heart is just not that into it anymore.
I mentioned that last Christmas I didn't even have a tree. In fact I don't think I hung one decoration (unless you count the Christmas lights on the outside of the house, but they were still there from the year before. Jon is very proactive that way.). It was a big disappointment to my kids and I was disappointed in myself. This year though I have vowed to put up a Christmas tree that will put the Griswolds to shame and I even plugged in the outside lights(although I blew a fuse - but half of them still work) because I want my kids to be surrounded by some semblance of Christmas cheer.
This all sounds so crazy coming from someone who used to do up Christmas in a grand way with decorations, big dinners served up on my very best china and Christmas music playing in the background. Seriously, it was right out of a Thomas Kinkade postcard. But such is not the case anymore and I would rather skip the formalities, have a quiet day at home(or on a beach in Mexico) and move painlessly into the new year.
Excuse me while I go call my therapist...