Over the course of this past year, while I wasn’t bothering to write in my blog, I somehow managed to meet, fall in love with, and marry someone who is, incredulously, as reclusive and neurotic as me. It’s been pure bliss. As I grew up in a non-Christmas-celebrating household while he did, that meant our first Christmas together was also my first Christmas, with the family. His family, but now my family too. I would finally get to experience for myself the alluring secret I’ve always watched from afar since I was I kid: the glimmering lights, the rich scent of fir needles hovering in front of your nose, the cookies, the tiny little gingerbread houses covered in icing, the benevolent angels. The warm cheeriness and utter feeling of contentedness, that everything is beautiful and just right.
I’m finally sitting back in front of my laptop after my first cozy Christmas. Really, I didn’t find it to be the trip through the euphoric dreamland everyone makes it out to be. Oh, my god. All day long with relatives, sitting on the couch vegetating, schmoozing about nothing, watching everyone else fall asleep on the couch from understimulation, listening to them complain throughout the evening that they ate too much and feel SOOOOO sick, playing depressingly dull board games, waiting for everyone to get tired enough to excuse themselves so you can leave too, which doesn’t come until bed time, and you’ve been in that living room since before 8 am, roused out of your dead sleep and dragged over to the family nest without even being given an opportunity to brush your teeth or change into fresh underwear or take your Zoloft and Wellbutrin, much less chug down your first cup of coffee. I really don’t know what everyone gets so excited about. Really.