I had set my alarm for early. I had plans, you see. Big plans. Gigantic plans.
Plans that involved hair cuts and glasses repairs and, God help me, maybe even starting some Christmas shopping.
Even I can’t quite consider finding a gift for an anonymous person having started Christmas shopping.
Buying gifts, for me, is a lot like writing papers. Despite my revulsion for shopping in general, I get excited when I have the time and the energy to really search for important gifts, meaningful gifts. I like things that reflect both the giver (me) and the recipient (whoever) in every gift I buy. Perhaps it’s selfishness on my part, but I like the idea of someone knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who gave them their gift. I don’t want mine to be lost in a sea of impersonal presents. I just can’t do it well when I have a billion at once.
So, this another year of my trying to throw the idea out there: Why don’t we pass on Christmas presents this year? We could adopt a family through the angel tree. We could go do something, somewhere, that didn’t involve a day that revolves around stuffing our faces with rich food and opening presents.
I knew it wouldn’t work. We’ve tried this in the past.
Even when my family members do not DO presents, they still do presents, and I hate it.
So I had plans. Big plans, all that jazz.
Only I woke up sick, my chest feeling as deflated as an inner tube underneath the wheel of a five ton dump truck, my throat burning and thick.
It could have been mistaken for love, or burning infatuation at any rate, except for my nose. Damn, my nose. My nose, crusted over like an ice floe that has been melted and re-frozen over a dozen or so millennia gave it all away.
I’m just grateful this pseudo-love had the good manners to grace my life AFTER the semester was over.
Timing, they say, is everything, and it’s time for me to go back to bed.