What. A. Scrooge.

Right now, I am being mocked by two things: A box of Christmas cards to fill with cheer and the gaping lack of cheer I am feeling. One is making me think of the other. The other is making me think of one. They are a halo of laugh track from a crappy sitcom.
I am one of the most Christmas-y people I know. Last year, the house was lit up (like a Christmas tree?) far too early, with green and red and gold and jingle bells and holiday music on Pandora. A glittering cocoon of cinnamon and pine. If I remember correctly, I even baked Christmas cupcakes for the housekeeping staff, which is an incredible commitment and even more incredible feat from a girl who prefers to make macaroni and cheese in a coffee maker and once tried to microwave an avocado. Ask any roommate I have ever had-- I LOVE Christmas.
So, what the eff, 2012?
I have written a lot about keeping my whimsical little self whimsical. It is a focus of mine, and a worthy one. It is my humble and too loud opinion that most of everyone takes themselves so seriously because that's what most of everyone else does. You can lose yourself if you're not careful. You can get vacuumed up into the world of rent and cell phone bills and tie pins. There's not much light in there. And apparently, there is no where to plug in Christmas lights.
I will be moving soon. To a little city studio by myself. How...real. I think it's freaking me out a little, even though it's just about one of the most exciting things I can imagine. To some extent, though I have been in Denver for a year now, this still feels like a made-up life. As if I will snap out of it and wake up in my tropical little tent, take a cold shower next to a tree frog, spray some deet on my flip-flopped toes and get back to life as usual.
But that's not going to happen.
And the reason Christmas felt so much more like Christmas in a place where it is 85 degrees and you string on your red and white bikini to feel festive is because that place was home. Temporary as it was, it was most definitely home. I have not allowed myself that in Denver. Despite the car purchased, the relationships developed, the mailing address changed, I have not given Denver the go-ahead to call me its own. If you are supposed to be at home for Christmas, but you're not totally sure that you actually have one of those, it makes some amount of sense to be in a holiday limbo.

So. Goal for the rest of this warmth-scented season, which I have spent my entire life completely in love with, is this, which is the essentially the same one I always have: Be here. Live here. Without my chest collapsing on my heart from the pressure of a sepia past and a blind future.

And decorate my new house like a Christmas bomb.
And write those damned cards.