When the Party's Over

Look around your house. Are the decorations still up? Are they starting to look sad and lonely, now that the presents have all been opened? Are you tired of eating the candy out of your stocking? What about the cookies that were fresh five days ago, but now taste slightly stale, just like a few days after Christmas feels?  Are the winter blues kicking in, even though winter isn’t even ten days old yet?

Here in the Southeast, we are having quite the rainy Christmas season. We didn’t get a white Christmas, but we did get a wet one. The sky is grey, the temperatures are in the damp fifties, and all of it makes for some pretty significant seasonal affective disorder. The only light most of us are getting is the glare from the television or from the screen in a darkened movie theater, which is only as good as the movie itself and only lasts as long as it takes for you to find your car in the parking lot.

Near my Christmas tree, with the skirt bunched up and wrinkled like an old drunk whore’s, are a few piles of Christmas gifts. They are loved and appreciated but they have yet to find a home. I bet you have those piles too, don’t you? Presents that are adored, but not necessarily easy to put away. The reason, inevitably, is that there is no room for more stuff. You needed new socks and underwear, but you didn’t clean out the dresser drawer because for some reason you can’t seem to part with the old ones. And it seems wasteful, doesn’t it, to just throw the stuff away, but does anyone really want your old underwear, with the faulty elastic or just the tiniest of holes? Are the socks that are worn thin on the heels something that should be added to the donation pile?

I asked a local charity that question once, as a volunteer helped me unload the back of my SUV. I felt guilty at the shoddy quality of some of my donated items, which are easier left quickly outside a donation site so no one can see that the pile of unattended shit was yours. She assured me that all donations are welcome, and that if the items are more than gently used, they could still fetch a decent price by the pound, making every donation one of value. I still don’t believe it. I contend that donating your old corn chip smelling sneakers constitutes cruel and unusual punishment, not for you, obviously, but for the unlucky Goodwill employee who has to sort through them and the other nasty things you dropped off in exchange for your tax deductible form, minus your old crusty socks and underwear that you were too lazy to take out of the drawer and put in a pile.
So the sky is grey, the tree is sad, the presents are sitting unused, the cookies are stale, and yes, you are sick of everyone that lives in the house. You have all attempted to get along for the past week, probably because you are still afraid of a phone call to Santa, even though you stopped believing in him about thirty years ago. Sure, you and the rest of the immediate family have bickered and snapped at each other, but you’ve made a concerted effort to keep it to a minimum so that you can enjoy the holidays. As my now twelve year old used to say back when she was in preschool, I’ve used up all my good. Now I, and I bet the rest of you, am tired of making the effort to get along. I don’t want to look at my family’s faces anymore, certainly not with those shitty expressions. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

The holidays are over, unless you count New Year’s Eve, which I don’t. Why is that even a holiday? It’s just the changing of a calendar year, so there is really no need to celebrate it. Why not move that waste of a holiday to a month that really needs it, like August. Trust me, New Year’s Eve would be much more fun in the middle of summer. You would feel better in that fancy dress because you aren’t full of stuffing and cookies, and it would make sense to be wearing it strapless because it isn’t thirty fucking degrees outside.

Tired of shopping yet? Yeah, me too. I know there are good deals to be had, but I don’t want to fight the traffic or the return lines. The joy and friendliness that made all the shopping a joy last week has been replaced with nastiness, impatience, and frustration as whatever items forgotten on your wish list are nowhere to be found, along with the gift receipts you needed to return your blender and really ugly sweater.

Men, listen up. Don’t buy your wife a blender, ever. Not even if she asks for one. A blender is never a gift for your wife. And don’t even think of getting a vacuum, unless you want your testicles sucked up through the HEPA filter.

You have eaten more in the past week than you thought humanly possible, am I right? Well, guess what, someone still has to make dinner, and that someone is probably you. No one wants any more ham or turkey. Those leftover mashed potatoes? Just toss them. The cranberry sauce too, because if you don’t do it now, you will find it next thanksgiving in the back of the fridge.  In my house, no one has provided input on what to make for dinner, but they have provided plenty of negative feedback on the options I have suggested. I have decided on soup. It’s cold and rainy, and I don’t care if anyone eats it. They can fight over the last two stale chocolate chip cookies for all I care.

I just wanted you to know that you are not alone. You are not suffering from depression. You don’t need to talk to somebody or make an appointment with your doctor. You are suffering from late December. We all are, so stop thinking you are so fucking special.