Who knew that writing my wife’s art history paper was going to take so much out of me? I finished that thing early Sunday night, but I was useless afterward, adrift in a sea of beer and the occasional rum-and-Coke.
Later, I got some forward momentum going on The Wrong Kind of Dead. I’ve got Derek Grace swinging his panga through a mob that nearly swarms him, Agnes’ monster truck flattening as many as she can while she debates using the flame thrower, which will surely catch the surrounding woods on fire. I don’t know if she’s going to use it yet, either.
Then Christmas happened. It didn’t catch me by surprise. I’d already finished my shopping by Sunday night. The packages arrived on schedule, and the wrapping went according to schedule.
I’m not big on keeping schedules, so the success of my plan was that much sweeter. But while I was prepared for Christmas, I wasn’t throwing myself wholeheartedly into it. Part of me was in hiding from it all.
No, I’m not sure what that means, either. I’m still working through the details of what happened Christmas night, but I’m pretty sure it was this psychic dodging, on top of the lack of sleep, on top of a flu and a hangover I hadn’t quite gotten over, on top of the Welbutrin I had foolishly ingested earlier in the day to keep me awake, that knocked me out of alignment on what should be one of the happiest days of the year.
Overall, though, it was a great teaching moment. In spite of everything, I got almost as much out of it as it took from me—I’ve been meaning to write a book on re-learning how to celebrate Christmas for decades, and I’ve got a nice fat Word file out of it, full of ideas for how to flesh out a concept I’ve been kicking around my entire adult life.
Bottom line, I got my head screwed back on straight enough to write a blog post that essentially informs the reader that there are very good reasons I don’t encourage people to follow me on Facebook. I try to keep all my boring personal stuff there.
It’s a big year ahead, with many, many changes in store. But I got new underwear, a spiffy new bathrobe, and fresh fleecy jammy bottoms to face them with. All this, and a comfy new leather chair. I’ve mourned my dead. Let’s put this new gear to work.
Later, I got some forward momentum going on The Wrong Kind of Dead. I’ve got Derek Grace swinging his panga through a mob that nearly swarms him, Agnes’ monster truck flattening as many as she can while she debates using the flame thrower, which will surely catch the surrounding woods on fire. I don’t know if she’s going to use it yet, either.
 |
| He’s not lying. I was out running a simple errand, and it was nuts out there on Christmas Eve. |
I’m not big on keeping schedules, so the success of my plan was that much sweeter. But while I was prepared for Christmas, I wasn’t throwing myself wholeheartedly into it. Part of me was in hiding from it all.
No, I’m not sure what that means, either. I’m still working through the details of what happened Christmas night, but I’m pretty sure it was this psychic dodging, on top of the lack of sleep, on top of a flu and a hangover I hadn’t quite gotten over, on top of the Welbutrin I had foolishly ingested earlier in the day to keep me awake, that knocked me out of alignment on what should be one of the happiest days of the year.
Overall, though, it was a great teaching moment. In spite of everything, I got almost as much out of it as it took from me—I’ve been meaning to write a book on re-learning how to celebrate Christmas for decades, and I’ve got a nice fat Word file out of it, full of ideas for how to flesh out a concept I’ve been kicking around my entire adult life.
Bottom line, I got my head screwed back on straight enough to write a blog post that essentially informs the reader that there are very good reasons I don’t encourage people to follow me on Facebook. I try to keep all my boring personal stuff there.
It’s a big year ahead, with many, many changes in store. But I got new underwear, a spiffy new bathrobe, and fresh fleecy jammy bottoms to face them with. All this, and a comfy new leather chair. I’ve mourned my dead. Let’s put this new gear to work.
 |
| Anytime you’re ready. |
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