So this is January?

The end of the Shopping Season is now at hand, as brought to a head by me working on New Year’s Day while the Penguins got their butts handed to them by the Caps in the Super Bowl of hockey, hosted right here in my adoptive city. What’s most miserable about it is that now that the cycle of illness and work is broken, I am totally ready to sit back and enjoy Christmas.
First, a little about myself. I freak out for Christmas. Not in a “OMG I HOPE I GET A PONY AND AN I-PAD!” sort of way, but I genuinely worry that somehow my actions (or lack thereof) will somehow ruin Christmas for everyone else around me. Thank God I don’t have children. So it’s been my tradition to have a panic attack and freak out about making sure that everyone’s Christmas is perfect.
I don’t even remember Christmas happening. I’m sure it did, I kinda recall waking up one morning, opening presents, and then terrorizing my girlfriend’s father’s dog all day. I think that was Christmas. But at the risk of sounding campy, despite knowing that Santa was really my parents pulling an all-nighter and that those distant sleigh bells were Grandpop running around the properties with old, honest-to-God sleigh bells for us kids, Christmas still always held a kind of magic. Maybe it was because I had to be back at the store the next morning to run a short-handed shift, and make sure that the impossible was accomplished. Does Santa feel like a sadist as he cracks the whip at 8 (or by some accounts, 9) reindeer to make them fly faster so he can meet his delivery schedule for the night? Nothing kills the mood of the holidays for someone who (somewhat erroneously) still considers themselves fresh out of college like work.
Getting drunk as all get out on New Year’s Eve helped to put me in the holiday spirit, and now that I look at my two days off I feel like I am finally beginning my Christmas break – despite the fact that I had a full month’s worth of dishes and laundry to clean up now. Here’s to hoping that I can turn these next two weeks around into a belated Holiday season, or it will end up like the Winter Classic; one crazy moment with an impossibly long lead up that ends up as wholesomely disappointing as that fake beard on the mall Santa. Now where’s the eggnog?

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