I often feel a bit shattered at this time of year, if it’s possible to be a “bit” shattered. A big party’s over. And resolutions no longer seem to reassure. Last year my sister-in-law and I pledged to give up breakfast meats (“Who needs bacon, really?”), but it didn’t last. And today I toyed with the idea of putting down $60 for the half-marathon training course at Running Room, but just walked out (slowly) with the brochure.
With age comes some self awareness (or at least I think that’s why; ask me when I’m older). So it’s a bit amusing to be conscious that I just can’t pack the Hallmark singing Santa face down in the decorations box, and that it bothers me that there are only four more buds on the Christmas cactus. The Santa thing’s just weird, I know. But the cactus only blooms at this time of year. And when it stops, it’s inevitable that my mind will cast forward to Christmas 2009. Where will we be? What’s going to happen this year?
I deal with the January uncertainty by writing little notes to my kids to tuck in with the decorations. This year will be the tenth time I’ve done this (the first ones were to Suzy). They’re pretty much the same every year and range from “Happy Christmas! If I’m dead, I Love You!” to “Don’t eat the old chocolate coins you find in this box!” What’s comforting is the fact that the notes show less anxiety and more quiet confidence with every passing year. Which is something I’m going to think about as I write this year’s note. My net’s going to be cast even wider this year, and I’m really excited about it. And as long as I get at least two weeks at the cabin, I’ll be fine.
I’m just hoping that this time next year the top story will be what to call the decade that just ended, and how Canada’s about to take all the gold in Whistler.
