I should be writing about the joys of the holidays. How I love the lights, and the cheeriness in the air. How you can find happiness in every corner if you really want to see it. I really should write about that.
But I’m not going to. Because for as much as I love the goodness about the holidays and the lights and the giving, there is another side to it for me as well. It’s the darker side. I crave the chaos it brings, and resent the fuck out of it at the same time. It’s the *KISS* then *SLAP* relationship I have with the month of December. Work is this shit-storm of problem after problem, but in some very weird way, I have to secretly admit I like that too. My days go by lightning fast. My brain feeds on the stress, almost challenging life to Bring It On! It’s this faux caffeinated cocaine fueled blur of days, where there is still one. more. fucking. thing. to. get. done.
It’s sick the way I love that. But there is a price to pay. My head constantly hurts, and I cannot seem to get enough sleep and there is never any time for me to write.
But don’t despair! While I am overwhelmed and (somewhat happily) stressed, I am simultaneously quietly suffering with the knowledge that extreme boredom, is right around the corner. Wait — it’s not so much boredom as it is, “Hey Welcome to Life! Where Everything Isn’t a Whirlwind of Chaotic Circumstances!” Right now, I am running on the holiday treadmill pacing and racing, but tomorrow knows I will be relearning how to roll with the mediocrity of it all.
Boredom scares the crap out of me. I don’t just mean, “Hey there is nothing to do this Sunday.” Those days I relish. The sloth in me curls up on the couch with fifteen remotes in hand, and bags of crap food, prepared to settle down for the long winters nap. On the flip side, I don’t mean not having a social calendar either. Everyone knows that one can have a calendar filled with events, and still be bored. Just as one can be in a room full of people and still be lonely.
I mean the kind of boredom that stagnates me. My movements and thoughts become figuratively thick and hard to manage. I become okay in being so mundane, that nothing sparks interest in me. An evening of iPad solitaire entertains the hell out of me. THAT kind of boredom. January represents that boredom. It’s waving to me. It’s your fat boring Aunt Edna, looking forward to your visit so you can do puzzles together.
I’ve been so used to commotion the past few months, that it started to feel normal. I know better. I know that running around and creating bedlam is a perfect way to avoid dealing with anything. Right before the holiday crush I noticed that the dust had barely settled and I was starting to feel like I was living in a ghost town. I relished the first few weeks of wiping the slate clean with the men in my life. I was exhausted. I felt like I could breathe again. Even losing TYO wasn’t that bad. — But now? Well at least the turmoil let me know I was still alive. It shook the walls a little and had me hanging on. And while logically I know this place I am in is the healthiest, I sort of don’t care. I’ve never lived the healthiest of lives to begin with. Why start now?
I think the lesson here is that I have to learn to get comfortable in the boredom. To embrace it a bit.
The deep down fear is that I will get so used to it, that I will simply become boring. Boredom is out there looking to tag me, and if I keep dodging and weaving, if I keep creating pandemonium it can’t mark me. It can’t bag me. Boredom knows; it’s extremely easy me for to pick up routines, that become habits. Boredom knows I will tire from the dodging. Especially now that I am single and living alone. Boredom waited out that first year. Initially it was just getting thru the months of painful days that bled into one another. Then it was fumbling around trying to figure out where my footing was. What I wanted. (I still don’t know about that) Then it was the non-stop parade of super unhealthy choices in men, but it was something.
Now — I feel that it’s get home from work, slip off the high heels, pour myself a glass of (Water? Wine? Cocktail? – depends on the day I’ve had), and sit in front of the iPad. I used to peruse the dating sites I was affiliated with first. Now, it’s more emails; anything that requires an answerback from me. Check Facebook, read a few blogs I follow and maybe play a game or two. Chain smoke the first couple of cigarettes of the day and then head in for dinner, and check the DVR. Who is this old lady who has inhabited me? GAH! – The holidays protect me from this.
I know, I can throw in lots of life’s ingredients to spice things up. Take a class! Re-join a gym! Embrace a passionate hobby! In theory, I agree. In reality, I laugh. The sloth in me lazily looks up with one eye open, and half-way smirks before falling back asleep knowing that words like gym, class and hobby aren’t really in this repertoire.
Seriously, sometimes when I think of my life of becoming the above mentioned, it scares the fuck out of me. I envision this scene from a show — I can’t for the life of me recall which one, but the memory of the scene is burned into my memory, with FEAR. Cue this older woman (much older than me, but nevertheless) coming home from work to an empty house. The lighting in the living room is bleak. She changes out of her sensible dull work shoes and into sensible dull house slippers. Turns on the TV, and sets the remote down on a TV tray that serves as a mini side table/dining room table for one. Goes into the kitchen, and pops open a canned beer – pffffssssstttt – and then throws a dinner into the microwave. Brings them both out to the TV tray, and settles into her naugahyde chair, with Wheel of Fortune blasting. LOUDLY. Eventually after a few more beers she falls asleep in front of the TV. Every. Single. Night.
That is my nightmare.
I will never own TV trays, or naugahyde. I will never drink canned anything, and I hate The Wheel of Fortune. But those are very minute details to change out. Replace the canned beer with a nice wine. Put on Breaking Bad instead of the Wheel. Keep the heels on, it doesn’t make a flipping difference. The songs the same. While the fear of becoming a version of this is real, I don’t see myself doing much to make sure it isn’t.
In the meantime, I will over shop. I will eat too many baked goods and worry about further adding to the ever expanding waistline. I’ll decorate until my house is brimming (tastefully of course). I’ll curse and love the holidays at the same time. I’ll shield my eyes from the inevitable bleak and gray January I cannot avoid.