Excuses, excuses

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It’s December 18 and I am woefully unprepared for the holidays, which is a bold departure from the normal checklists, menus and gifts blocking my closet. The holidays are a time to drink deep from the well of consumerism, to wake and worry early, to plan and prep late into the night. I’ll say it straight up; I bought happiness and sold sanity for a few hours of distraction. Not this year.

I have four presents for my adult-ish sons, total. The stockings hang limp. There are no pastries cooling, no fresh gingerbread cookies lining the counters like an army of sugary soldiers, no candies, bowls of cashews and walnuts, no trimmings and trappings. No-thing. Definitely no egg nog, because drinkable custard is not my jam. My plans to bake and freeze lasagne for Christmas Eve peaked when I put a box of no-boil noodles on the counter. Sorry Santa, I fed the carrots to the horses.

This year I started out strong. I love the whole holiday shebang. Lights! Wreathes! Burl Ives! Sing it Mariah! Our tree was up the week before Thanksgiving. The merry twinkling anchored me as sunset tiptoed toward lunchtime.

Then December arrived with my excuses. I made promises to myself, but who would believe me? Half-hearted lists were abandoned as I searched for a sharper pencil and watched one more episode of “The Great British Baking Show.” T-6 days ’till Rudolph, and I am considering a bath.

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Of Sweaters and Gophers

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It’s no mystery why I didn’t shop, it’s a rather painful chore because I am a terrible shopper. It was easy when my kids were young — toys are fast to find and easy to order.

Last week, I tried the classic face-to-face consumerism in search of a red sweater. My social battery for this errand was charged for exactly three minutes.

I marched to the first employee I could find. “Hello, do you sell red sweaters?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, and then I turned around, trying to locate this elusive ‘ma’am,’ realizing–she was talking to me.

“Follow me,” she said, while texting her way across the store.

Retail Battery Life: two minutes.

She led me to a rack of blue, pink and printed sweaters. “But huh, I guess no red,” she said returning to her phone.

“Okay, thanks,” I said, retreating.

“Wait, these blue ones are so nice and soft, don’t you want to–“

“No, thanks. Have a good one,” I said, pocketing the minute I saved like a treasure.

As I stepped outside, she called, “I could order one for you!”

Well, I can order one, or can I?

I found the red sweater online, in the size I need. Then I spend the minute I saved in the store and three more hours comparing red sweaters at seven different sites, for color, sleeve length and quality. Was the fabric sustainably sourced, and did the price reflect the guilt of the textile industry? Are the materials organic, healthy and otherwise driving the price?

Finally, I fell prey to clickbait and woke up dazed, watching a clip of a gopher eating cabbage. Still no sweater.

So, I gave up under the rationalization that all these gifts are enabling my overstriving tendencies and bringing me no satisfaction.

Buying gifts for children, that was fun. Watching my boys shake the box trying to guess: Millennium Falcon or Hogwarts Lego set? Creating joy and wonder was worth every frantic moment, and the ensuing fatigue. Folding and refolding pastry dough for the croissants or snuggling down with the residents of Bedford Falls felt genuine. Now, it feels hollow.

Those days were replaced by the dormant 17 hoodies from Christmas past, each abandoned because of a pin prick-sized stain under the armpit, or inside the collar and therefore allocated as garage sale fodder. These are kept company by the $300 white sneakers that are now “bad” because, “Brah, the soles are dirty” and apparently morally compromised.

So, with the lowest ego and the most sincere declaration possible, I will protect my peace and say NO more. I massaged that thought with myrrh oil as I searched for a new land, with no claim flag behind my back.

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The Season of Asking

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Giving to get, is not giving, it’s asking. Pledging this insane holiday sorority every year is now a thing of my past.

After circumnavigating myself in the right direction, I arrived at the once distant shore of Sanityland, where shop is a four-letter word.

I am not anti-gifts, I am anti-stuff. I want to give actual joy, that feels good in the giving. Why not start with yourself?

Here is your ultimate DIY gift: you create a fantasy day quilt made of patches of memories, people, and time periods crafted into One Fine Day. Nothing needs to match as you choose your perfect day of memories, it only has to make your heart sing.

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One Fine Day

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My day begins early at DJ’s Rustic restaurant with my Dad, the heavy smell of bacon and hash hangs in the air. I drink hot chocolate and twirl on the stool to the quacking conversational hum of men in flannel shirts.

Then the sun is up and my boys and I go skiing at Dewey Mt., where they tower over me, tease me for my poor form and effortlessly float over snow like they were born with skis on.

Breakfast is in the green booths at the Hotel Saranac with Bill Madden Sr., who has eggs benedict, and my Grandpa Fobare, who likes his eggs scrambled, with rye toast. When we leave they both slip a few jelly packets in their pocket, a Depression survivor’s reflex.

Next, it’s my favorite place on earth, Fletcher Farm Road where I take a riding lesson from Karen Johns on the world’s greatest horse, Skipper. It is here that I find myself, and here I will someday return.

Lunchtime is a game of hit-you-in-the-face dodgeball in our Park Avenue backyard with the Wilsons, DeFurias and Sardellas. Game on, whiners go home.

Kris and I take our labs Phelps and Colden for a long swim on Lower Saranac, laughing as they repeatedly launch off the dock. On the way home we stop by the Lake View Deli where John Van Anden chats us up while making perfect veggie and hummus sandwiches on 12 grain bread.

Then I go for a long run. One foot in front of the other around Pisgah, Moody Pond and down Kiwassa, my shadow as my companion, no cares, no worries.

The afternoon calls for Lake Clear Beach, where Brooke Peria and I toss dead fish into buckets, eat sandy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and wait exactly one half-an-hour before we swim.

Early supper is my Mom’s spicy spaghetti, the whole house smells of sauce and garlic bread. Then it’s high school summer soccer with the humidity at 100%, followed by a Crescent Bay cold plunge. Dripping and elated, we recklessly race bikes to the Tuesday night dance at the Elks Club, with Killer spinning tunes.

Finally, it’s bedtime. Kris and I check our toddlers, asleep, the north Maine woods stirring in the breeze, “Star Wars” books on the floor, and white pine shadows on the walls.

Your turn. What will you add to your One Fine Day quilt of memories? Your one-size-fits-all memory quilt doesn’t need to be in writing. Share it with a friend, say it on your drive to work or whisper it into the velvet of the night.

How will I package the drastically reduced present count on Christmas day? No clue. Will they gobble up grilled cheese for Christmas dinner? I dunno. This year I am going to wing it. No guilt. No shame. Simple is my love language. I shed the self-imposed shackles of perfectionism that cost my calm. You can toss yours too.

Sanityland. I am here to assimilate, not colonize; I’d like to stay. Oh, for me? Thank you, I’d love a cup of cheer.