Thanksgiving came and went and was exhausting. Somehow the holidays seem more trouble than they're worth, leaving me feeling depleted, stressed out and broke. I wouldn't mind skipping them altogether in favor of something less rigorous and emotionally charged, like St. Patrick's Day. Except that I apparently hate St. Patrick's Day too. Veteran's Day? Too vulnerable to jingoism. Valentine's Day? Forced romance and expensive pre-fixe dinners. Also: vomiting. Halloween? Porky girls in tube tops and mesh stockings. New Years? No effing cabs when you need them. Easter? Possibly, though again with the exhausting eighteen-person dinners and mass chaos. (Then again, jelly beans.) Columbus Day? Everyone likes a day off, especially to commemorate the wholesale destruction of America's indigenous people. July 4th? Sweaty drunk people watching the sky explode.
I get like this - insufferably Schwartzfarbian - every year at this time, and it lasts until, oh, May or so, when the urge to become a Jehovah's Witness slowly dissipates and the weather becomes tolerable again.
This year, however, feels distinctly darker. It's not been a happy year in the WPM household, what with all the death and doom and destruction and a host of major life changes that have knocked us on our asses. And then there is the fact that I am no longer hiding my fundamental unhappiness with a) my work, b) the amount of time I spend doing my work, c) my job paralysis due to c) countless personality flaws and d) financial obligations. As Belgian Waffle mentioned yesterday, self-discovery is a bastard - it's also expensive, boring, depressing, time-consuming, exhausting and scary. And yet, there are little glimmers of hope and progress here and there, and, on occasion - unadulterated joy.
Like seeing the Pitmen Painters. And cuddling my baby niece, Pudding Pop (who now smiles radiantly while pooping up her back). And encouraging feedback on a writing assignment. And reading this wonderful memoir and this marvelous cookbook. And making plans with friends. And the realization that a year ago my dad wasn't well enough to sit at the Thanksgiving table, and this year he held court in a black velvet jacket and polka dot bowtie. Which leads me to Benjamin Disraeli:
I feel a very unusual sensation - if it is not indigestion, I think it must be gratitude.
P.S. For PETE'S SAKE I WENT BACK AND CORRECTED ALL OF MY SPELLING MISTAKES. WHY can't I get just spell check in the first place? WHY?
