Ms. ___ started listening to Christmas music the day before Thanksgiving this year. Usually she waits until the day after. It's a tradition, not just for her, but for the whole country, she thinks. Radio stations set this tradition perhaps. Or was it her mother? Either way, it works. Thanksgiving sneaks up on you just as you were enjoying fall, and then you can't believe you're hearing "Silver Bells" and there are Christmas lights on the main streets. But this year she didn't really enjoy fall. She didn't really enjoy summer, come to think of it. She is not in despair over this, however; she is looking forward to Christmas. One might think she has a negative outlook on things because nothing, not a thing, has worked out for her since ... well, she can't even recall the last time something great happened. Years ago. When she made lots of friends and got a better desk and fit into all her old skirts and still enjoyed cocktails and appetizers nightly. That was a good time. For a while after that, things didn't get terribly worse, until recently, but nothing got better. Indeed, she doesn't have that much reason to really be looking forward to Christmas this year. She has no gifts that she is excited to give to anyone, nor is she expecting anything. Nor does she want anything. What could she need? Only things she can't ask people for. You can't wrap up an MRI.As much as she is looking forward to Christmas (which is a lot), she is equally fearful of the depressing time when it's all over. That empty feeling; she still remembers that feeling from childhood the day after a birthday. The disbelief in how one gets through 364 more days until that special feeling again. She's trying to plan for that dark, cold time now. But she just looks at more cookie recipes instead. Maybe she will just eat cookies every day every time she feels lonely. She's done it before and knows they are better friends than most of the ones she has. Oatmeal, chocolate chip, peanut butter. And her. Of the four of them, she's definitely the Miranda.
On a nice, slow walk home a few nights ago, she very much enjoyed listening to Christmas songs through her ipod shuffle (a gift from last year, it still has the songs her brother put on it: Christmas songs, Kenny Loggins, some Beatles, and Alicia Keys. He thought she would enjoy her; she does, but she's sick of it now a little bit.) On the night of this walk home, George Winston was playing the piano through her earphones and it was pleasant outside, not windy at all. It was dinnertime, according to most of the families she [spied] through the tall windows of million-dollar brownstones. Strings of light twinkled the shiny new of early-December-decorations, but were still not as bright as the moon, which was full, and brilliant. It was a perfect walk. Once she realized this she began to get sad. Tomorrow would probably get colder.
She keeps making cookie dough and freezing it. Four different kinds in tinfoil in her freezer. She doesn't want to bake them yet.
Something needs to happen, and she needs to make it happen. But she's paralyzed by this holiday season; you can't start something new when everyone's about to have a week of vacation! She'll wait. She's also having a hard time leaving her apartment. [Her bed, somedays.] Perhaps ... perhaps if you spend Christmas with no one, you can pretend like it hasn't happened yet. She'll need more freezer space.
