Somedays there aren’t enough hours. Of course, each and every day offers up the very same 24-hours. But some days zip along while others linger like fog. I’m attributing this to some semblance of age. Christmas vacation from school seemed boundless; endless, really–right? Now–in adulthood, even a few days off work around the Christmas holiday just fly by. Gone.
Because as maturing adults our brain only has so much room for the creation of new memories. And I believe it somewhere within that navy blue murkiness of short-circuiting, sparking brain cells, that some memories die to make room for fresh ones, that the essence of time, as we define it, loses mathematical, calendar date ranking. This theory is supported by my whinging mother who cannot tell you what her lunch was yesterday but can razor tongue recount the time Aunt Miriam wore her new champagne colored mink stole to Tony and Connie’s house party when she knew VERY WELL none of the other sisters-in-laws got that “fell off a truck” Christmas gift from their respective toothpick-sucking husbands.
It is early afternoon here. I have Christmas shopping to complete as out-of-town gifts must leave tomorrow or Tuesday at the very latest. Yet, here I sit–luxury polar fleece Ralph Lauren robe cocooned, resolute that my magical thinking will drop the few remaining gifts into my lap. My energy is zapped and for that I attribute the full Xanax haze that remains from last night’s near nervous breakdown. The silence and aloneness in this apartment is cloying and choking sometimes. Not often, but when it hits me I go near-panic with my “i-could-lay-here-and-die” and who would care crazy town thoughts.
I knew the evening was headed south as I didn’t plug in the tree or window lights. It’s my wicked, illogical thinking that kept them off. “You folks in the hi-rise tower across the way, yes…you there! You will not see the tree lit tonight from your condo. Your Christmas party gathering can just sit and look at my darkened windows.” Absurd. I know. Add this cherry on top: I figured some frenemies might be driving about last night and I also wanted them to think I was out of town or at least attending some swanky, luxe Christmas cocktail soiree that they were not invited to engage.
Sickness. I know. It’s the depression. My gaily decorated apartment is a Christmas time metaphor that shakily aligns with Dicken’s Great Expectations. Like Miss Havisham I sit and ponder, among the holiday trim, how I got here and how to punish those who venture to crack my stoic veneer of ‘is this all there is?’