We’re still in a pandemic and I think officially supposed to be gentle with ourselves when possible? so it seems like a good time to try it. (Granted, I have it now because I forgot I had it on the first day of Christmas.) Mostly, I’m trying to operate in that holiday sense of time where you can do pointless fun things and there’s no list, or at least not a fixed and urgent one. I unwrapped my chocolate orange after dinner tonight. I’m writing “Merry Christmas!” to people (who celebrate Christmas) without waffling about sorry-it’s-late. The post office is running late anyway, and I have way more days off work after (the first day of) Christmas than before it. This year I’m conducting the experiment of treating the twelve days of Christmas like it’s for real. I hate feeling behind, and Christmas is pretty much a month of feeling behind, starting in late November. As things slip, I go, “Christmas is really twelve days, I can send New Years cards instead,” et cetera, but then actually as of the 26th it’s over and I uncomfortably forget what I haven’t done. The Twelve Days of Christmas is usually a lie I tell myself as I fail at thinking of presents and posting cards and packages and decorating and baking so that everything is in place no later than the morning of December 25th.
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