I’ve fallen deeply into the amnesia that accompanies a holiday I barely celebrate, generously wrapping my arms around the reasonable absence of moral judgment that is coupled with this seasonal brain fog.
Breakfast meats (sweats) and nearly noon somewhere tipplings, for others.
For me, wouldn’t you like to know.
I put football on in the background as a nod to Culture, of some sort. I don’t know the names of the players, teams, or commentators, but the roar of the festively inebriated crowed blankets me in a strange sense of collegial comfort.
I put football on in the background as a nod to my ex, who put pigskin throwing — alongside a lengthy spectrum of emotion — in the foreground for several trips around the sun.
By 2pm, I’m not sure whether it’s noon or dark outside. It’s neither, but not for long.
I graze — all things — not just the refrigerator, at risk of overcommitting to anything other than leisure itself.
True to millennial form, I swat at said leisure with tales of Using This Time Productively, or (the crocodile that’s yet to be slapped but definitely should) Time To Get Ahead.
Ahead of what? I’m not sure.
The List, My List, is amorphous. My anxiety is not.
By sundown, I’m ready to pack up this flavor of millennial angst for the day.
A package arrives and I have no idea of its contents.
Good. Job.
I — blissfully ignorant — continue to surf the small spending interval that’s starting to seem… not all that small.
Football. (Excessive) Shopping. Lots of (human) turkeys. Work anxieties (dwarfed by) Existential anxieties.
Happy Holidays.