It’s officially the holiday season.
I’ve switched from Pumpkin Lattes to Gingerbread Lattes. I purchased a new doormat adorned with the word “Joy.” The tree will go up on Saturday and the shopping will commence.
Every year at this time I lean over from my passenger seat in this automobile called *Life* and I evaluate.
I consider where I was last year. I take a census of the survived relationships and try to sweep the filaments of the failed under a random rug. I take a long, hard, considerable look at the authenticity of my happiness.
I do this while sitting by myself in tiny coffee shops (like Meg Ryan might in a bad Lifetime movie (…stop judging me)).
Last year, I was not happy. I recall sitting in the living room with the then roommate praying for the season to pass with great expedience.
I remember immersing myself in crowded shopping malls and restaurants praying for the holiday spirit to seep into me.
It didn’t work.
So I drank a lot of red wine last Christmas (if you can’t beat ’em…be incoherent).
Anyway, that was last year.
This year, I am timidly and very quietly (so as to not draw unwarranted attention from the karmic powers of this universe) proclaiming the sweetness of daily life.
There’s no drama. No flailing, drowning, life-draining relationships to tend to. No epic emotional mountain to climb or move or navigate around.
There’s nothing. It’s quiet. And it’s wonderful.
My entire life I’ve believed that relationships are what fill you up.
Recently, I’ve realized that only certain kinds of relationships have the ability to do that.
The extraneous and meaningless are the equivalent of leaving lights on in unoccupied rooms.
You’re paying for the energy with zero ROI.
And, well, to be completely honest…I’m sort of bored with that idea.
Merry (simplistic, wonderful, awesome) Christmas season, people.
Find the ones you love, build a fire, and share the light.
And don’t forget the Gingerbread Latte (so, so good).