Until yesterday, I pretty much hated this holiday season. A word like “hate” isn’t something I toss around lightly. Like kill, punch, smash and dead, “hate” exceeds the threshold of story-enhancing hyperbole and threatens to tip into too much. I’m simply uncomfortable using those words unless I really, really mean it. And, I can’t really imagine meaning most of those things. But, this season and hate went together like a pair of woolly mittens tethered to a long, frayed idiot string. (“Idiot”, too, is more mean than comical, but I’ll make an exception for the braided yarn that saves your mitts on the toboggan hill.)
Waking up after drinking, ummm, everything on New Year’s Eve, I passed a day in the clutches of a hangover I richly deserved before going back to bed about five hours after I got up. A solid sleep and many litres of water flushed out the worst of the poison, but yesterday’s yoga class pumped the residue of gin, champagne, bourbon and scotch into circulation. I didn’t upchuck during downward dog but it was close.
On the 31st, shortly before twelve o’clock, three friends and I exchanged meaningful looks over fizzing wine flutes, and declared that fresh 2011 would deliver things that previously eluded us, arrived only to let us down, or had felt too fledgling to articulate until it seemed too late. Our toast could have fallen flat, bland words shared on a drunken occasion when that is precisely the sort of platitude people are expected to exchange. Whether the year plops all those things in our laps or not, the toast did me one better than that. It kicked my ass out of the funk I’ve felt haunted by since September when a man I cared for really fucking let me down and provoked me to figuratively pack his bags and chuck them out my door. I deliberately conflated “hating Christmas and New Year’s” with “floundering in residual relationship angst”. Until yesterday, when I woke up honestly lighter and no longer trapped in my own heart.
Despite the near-barfing, yesterday was great because it wasn’t the day before, and this morning was even better for not being yesterday. It’s my last day off work before returning to the office and a long stretch of weeks between now and the next holiday. This morning, I looked forward to my final day of “holiday season” and a productive combination of downtime and chores, and to taking action on a handful of resolutions, which I made this year for the first time:
1. yoga every day (yes…every…day)
2. wine and sugar no more than every second day (not together, of course)
3. learn how to sleep (#2 might support this endeavour more than I appreciate)
4. join three groups where I will meet people I do not already know and who I would not likely meet if I stuck to my current comfortable spaces and routines
5. properly settle into my apartment instead of resisting establishing roots
6. spend time with friends in a more sincere way
7. pass my first driver’s licence road test by December 31st
8. work on my book for real instead of planning to start it one day (“one day” being code for “not ever”)
But, after a latté and early morning chat with Z. and M., some errands during which I grew shivery then a second latté to restore some core warmth, I am rambling and jittery, unable to construct a simple story (this piece has taken more than one hour to cobble together) or hatch a comprehensive house-cleaning plan. Jacked on caffeine that I am unaccustomed to guzzling since I kicked the habit in November, I am fast yet useless, and so until tomorrow, will leave the story at that.