For some reason I’m actually excited about Christmas this year. Not quite wear-a-tacky-sweater excited, but actually-going-to-decorate-a-tree-and-drink-lots-of-mulled-wine excited.
Not entirely sure why this is, but it might have something to do with the fact that I don’t really have anything to be depressed about this year. As someone who deals with month-long mood swings and varying degrees of S.A.D., the month of December is usually a gauntlet of self-medication drug trials.
After remarking to Boy Roommate that I was *gasp, shock, horror!* looking forward to the holidays (and then processing the subsequent confusion wrought about his face), I sat and thought about it. I think the last time I was this genuinely excited about Christmas was 2002.
2002. Huh. That’s nine years ago.
I guess the intervening years have been wasted on the emotional fall-out of exam stress, bad relationships, break-ups, post-travel blues, post-university blues, deaths of family, deaths of friends, anxiety about the future, and perhaps just a general sense of ennui.
So why is this year different?
I don’t really know. It’s not like there’s been anything major. No lottery wins, no unprecedented publishing contracts or movie deals, no loves at first sight, no adorable street kid charming their way into my heart.
I guess it’s the minor things. I’ve come off of one of the most creatively fulfilling and productive years of my life: one novel complete and another will be done by the end of the year. I live my life in the presence of some wonderful people who
love tolerate me. My family is healthy (for the most part), happy (at least some of us), but we’re always there for each other.
I guess life’s like Doctor Who: not perfect, but charming and cheeky in its own little way.
Bring on the egg nog.