It comes every year—the inevitable sense of melancholy, the feeling of disappointment in the pit of my stomach.
I’m one of those people who really believes that the holiday season is the best part of the year. Granted, I could do without the snow and cold, but
there’s just something about Christmastime. Everything seems to sparkle. There are twinkle lights aplenty, people are in better moods, and there always feels like a reason to celebrate. Sure, the season can be stressful. But then you indulge in a favorite holiday movie (“The Santa Clause”) and your Starbucks holiday drink of choice from a red cup (two-pump skim caramel brulee latte, no toppings and extra hot, please), and you’re back on track. It feels warm and comforting, and kind of like you’re floating along for a month or so.
And then, just like after your birthday cake is cut or you walk in the door after a vacation, you crash.
You clean up the wrapping paper and put away your presents. You hang up your dinner dress and push the holiday-themed sprinkles to the back of your pantry. You take down the tree or lights or whatever decorations you could squeeze into your apartment, and it’s all over.
Sure, there are things to look forward to. Valentine’s Day, I guess. Even a promising weekend can spark a little flicker of anticipation—but it’s not the same, and you know it.
I don’t mean to be depressing. I’m lucky, I know. My holiday was lovely. I got to spend it with family and friends, and there’s a new year full of promise to look towards. But I want to be greedy. I want the magic to last longer. I want to wake up and have it feel like Christmas Eve every morning, wearing my cozy plaid nightshirt and getting dressed to go eat piles of Christmas pancakes. Is that so wrong?
I know I’d tire of it eventually, and maybe it speaks to the fact that I should try to live every day like it’s Christmas morning—appreciating the sparkle, indulging in the pancakes. Unfortunately, that’s not how things are. Welcome to grown-up status. Excuse me while I go pay my rent.