We'd planned to be happily settled into a new home in time for the holidays, but last minute glitches being an inherent part of 99.999% of all corporate relocations, we're not closing on our new place until December 27th. So that leaves us in this temporary house, two chairs of our own settled amidst an unmatched assortment of chairs and tables this Malibu-Barbie-sized abode came furnished with. There's not a wreath or sprig of mistletoe to be seen, and no place to hang a stocking if we wanted to. Honestly, there's not many extra stockings available. With nine tenths of everything we own in storage, we'd be hard pressed to relinquish a good pair of socks to the decorating cause, even in the spirit of the season.
The best laid plans often go awry, especially when I'm making them. Notice of my husband's transfer arrived in June. I coordinated the movers, sent all but the barest essentials to storage, quit my job, and prepared to join my husband in Utah at what I considered the very last minute in October, two weeks before the new owners closed on our house. Enter Murphy's Law. The sale fell through and I'm off to Utah with three pair of Levi's, two pair of Nikes, and all good intentions to tackle a 'couple of weeks' situation that's now pushing two months. But there's light at the end of the tunnel with the finalization of another sale on our home. There's the pending closing on the new home. It's just not happening when I'd counted on it happening, which was in plenty of time for the holidays.
So here we are and there's not a red ribbon, stocking, wreath or cinnamon scented pinecone in this place. If it wasn't for the sudden influx of toy commercials on primetime television, a Mannheim Steamroller CD my mother-in-law sent, and the fact that the Neighborhood Watch contingent tied a red velvet ribbon around every mailbox on the block, we might even forget that Christmas is upon us. We can get away with this because it's just the two of us. If we had children (other than the four legged variety requiring rabies vaccines, of which we have two), we'd buy a tree, replace all the accessories, and do the season up right. But somehow, I think the dogs will forgive us if Canine Santa takes a bye on decorations this year, does not require them to wear jingly bells on their collars for twelve days, and delivers their annual 2' red rawhide chews sans stockings.
We haven't shopped, having decided that the purchase of a new house is expenditure enough (the temporary lack of a second income helped greatly in reaching this decision). We are unanimous in our resolve that all we want for Christmas is our own home once more. Everyone who knows us realizes we've been in transfer mode for six months and will, with any luck, forgive us if we just send a card this year. Those who don't forgive us outright will, with a bit more luck, forget our oversight by the time Christmas rolls around next year.
I suppose I expected to suffer the blues during this strange non-holiday season, or to develop a burgeoning empathy with the Grinch himself, but I haven't. What I feel is a strange and exciting calm about the whole thing, a lightness of heart induced by the realization that I'm not lacking in Christmas spirit at all, just the inherent frustration and stress I'd for years accepted as being its key components. This non-holiday epiphany of sorts hit me as we rode the light rail downtown last weekend, on a spontaneous trip induced by sheer boredom and too many days in too-close quarters, to see the Festival of Trees at the Salt Palace. Hundreds of trees, decorated by businesses and organizations, are sold to raise money for Primary Children's Hospital and the countless children that organization helps. This is the first year we've had either the time or the inclination to attend anything like that. Usually, I'm so worn out from working and shopping and cooking and decorating and wrapping and packing and shipping that if a spare moment comes my way, I want to tackle it in a recliner, not on my feet.
Stranger still, I'm honestly enjoying department store commercials this year, perhaps because I know I don't have to trudge out and elbow my way through any of them. Not having a paycheck for the past two months, the 5th and 20th of the month have lost meaning for me, and I'm not, like last year, counting the paychecks available until the final shopping day. If it wasn't for a reminder on my AOL welcome screen, I wouldn't know how many shopping days were left, and this seems to have been of huge importance in the past. Christmas cards, usually hastily scrawled, are something I'm giving more time to this year, time I won't be standing in line at the post office, or making a last minute run to an overcrowded mall for stocking stuffers. I'm not cooking a Christmas dinner (for which I am extremely grateful, as the only pans not in storage are three pieces of T-Fal minus lids and one glass casserole pan) but I'm looking forward to going out to eat at any place that happens to be open. It's an adventure of sorts, like Thanksgiving Day, when we ventured out in search of any open eatery with manageable lines and wound up enjoying steaming plates of cheese enchiladas.
Something is definitely missing this year, but when I stop to think about it, it's not what I originally thought. What I considered vital parts of the holiday season are really just the headaches and complications I have, for so many years, incorporated into the proceedings. The headaches of shopping, the worry over shipping, the scramble at the grocery store, the overspending, the strange resounding plunk of melancholy hitting the pit of my stomach as the day draws to a close too soon and I realize it's over and sooner or later (but no later than the end of the following week), it's going to be time to take the decorations down and re-pack them into the garage. What feels most unusual this year is perhaps most important. I believe the biggest gift we'll receive this season is this unexpected opportunity to appreciate the lack of traditional preparations.
Our gifts lie before us, even without a tree: The unusual treat of writing more than, "Hope your holidays are great!" in a card before sending it. The afternoon spent at the Festival of Trees, and the honest enjoyment of taking the time to look at every one of them. The lack of rush. The lack of planning. The absolute absence of anything to do with the holiday that we've ever done before. It seems Fate stepped in, aligned itself with Murphy's Law, and presented us with the best holiday season we'll ever have, in the guise of this Happy Non-holiday season of 2000.
I'm not sure what next year will bring. Maybe I'll get caught up in the frenzy again, lured by the lavish decorations and piped in carols that spontaneously erupt in malls and grocery stores beginning any time after noon on October 31st. Maybe I'll feel a familiar inclination, come September, to pick up a few gifts here and there so I'm not shopping 'at the last minute', and I might even feel a little self-congratulatory rush if I'm able to get the boxes to the post office before December 1st. Perhaps I'll come up with a wish list of items I don't really need but feel I should want, so those who have me on their shopping list will be able to feel their mission was well accomplished and I'll pick up the same kinds of items for people on mine, and if time permits, I'll scratch out a few cards and get them sent, but if not I'll send a brief and chatty chain email to those I truly love. Maybe, just maybe, if things go according to plan, I'll make the requisite five extra trips to the grocery store for items I forgot, three to the mall for gifts recently remembered, and one last minute dash for two more poinsettias for the mantle and another quart of eggnog just in case. Then, just maybe and with a great deal of luck, I should have it all in place some time before seven or eight o'clock on Christmas night, which should leave me anywhere between five minutes and two hours to sit down, relax, and honestly enjoy the holiday.
We've learned something, this year.
There's a lot to be said for boxing up all but the bare essentials, moving into temporary living quarters and being left with inadequate cookware, confined spaces, and each other's company. It's given us the gift of the best holiday season we'll ever have, and the first that's been about enjoying the season and all it means, instead of the chaotic planning and running and hustling we for years accepted as the necessary aspects of getting ready for it.
Reprieved from the traditional scramble of holiday shopping, we've been given the time to appreciate and be grateful for what we already have, and it's got nothing to do with what's in that storage warehouse.
It's too bad we're not due for a transfer for another five years.
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