I am not a holiday person. Right out of college, I landed a job as an editorial assistant for a publishing company that put out three monthly magazines: Car Audio & Electronics, Audio/Video Interiors, and Volleyball Magazine. Random, I know. Now that I am a grown-up and have had around eight different jobs, I can tell you that my publishing job was the best damn job I ever had. I got paid to edit letters to the editor (written by teenage boys whose goal in life was to trick out their cars with super-loud boomboxes), set up grand scale audio/video equipment for photo shoots, decorate my cubicle with promotional photos sent by rap artists who hoped to get featured in the magazine, and stay up all night the day before the magazines were set to go to print.
My coworkers were young, hip, artistic liberals who smuggled bottles of tequila, lime and salt into their offices to help get us through those all-nighters. It was the first time I had ever met a woman close to my age who wore her long blonde hair in cornrows, dressed in clothes she airbrushed herself, and kept her maiden name even after she got married. (This was in 1990, when it wasn't as common as it is now. I officially feel old, having just written that comment). What really made an imression on me, though, was that every year, she and her husband-with-a-different-last-name-than-hers skipped the traditional Christmas celebration and instead went camping and surfing in Baja California. Having never been a holiday person, I swore that when I grew up and got married I would have nontraditional Christmases.
Alas, I left the world of publishing in Southern California and after a series of fateful incidents entered the world of appellate law in Maryland. Even though I kept my maiden name after getting married, and my children have hyphenated last names, I have yet to fulfill my ambition of having nontraditional holidays. In fact, my family's celebrations are even more "traditional" than I ever experienced in my childhood. We buy and wrap what seems like a gazillion presents, drive around to see light shows, trek annually to a Christmas tree farm, go to church on Christmas Eve decked out in festive green and red outfits, have a big dinner with special plates and silverware, read 'Twas the Night Before Christmas in front of a roaring fire, wake up early to find Santa's gift's in our stockings, and eat a special Christmas morning breakfast. It's all very Norman Rockwell-like. Apple-pie-ish. Happy Days-esque. Just shoot me.
I get depressed during the holidays. Cold weather and the lack of sunlight bum me out; I question the sanity of the Pilgrims who decided to settle in the Northeast even as they witnessed their friends and families meet their demise as a result of hypothermia or pneumonia. The shopping frenzy at malls overcrowded with bad drivers turns me into a maniac. I miss being with my family in California. I resent the kitchy sweaters with the poinsettias and reindeer with tiny jingle bells around their necks. The repetitive tunes of Deck the Halls and Feed the World drive me to near murderous fury. And the strain of having to hide all of my negativity for the sake of my innocent children who just want to revel in the magic of the season is enough to push me off the ledge. I just can't wait to get it all over with.
One day at work during the week of this past Christmas, my head felt as if it were being crushed between two steel walls that were closing in on me. I concluded that perhaps my headache were a brain tumor (I am a bit of a hypochondrac). That led to thoughts about what would become of my kids if I were to die at this age. Who would bathe them at night, rock Jagger to sleep, read to Skyler in bed, buy their favorite snacks, kiss and cuddle them multiple times per day, spoil and indulge them? I was devastated by the notion of my children growing up motherless.
After a few minutes, my headache went away, and I was filled with an immense sense of gratitude. Thank God I'm not dying from a brain tumor, I thought. Relief washed over me like a shower of ionic molecules neutralizing the negative ions that during the holiday season had become the essence of me. My brain tumor had disappeared, and my children would get to eat chicken nuggets warmed up by their mother that night! (Yep, in the span of about five minutes, I had experienced the symptoms, diagnosed myself, rendered a terminal prognosis, miraculously recovered, and celebrated my second chance at life). How fortunate I am to be healthy and able to take care of my children. The sense of gratitude started to overwhelm me and I started to think that all the things that I had been complaining about were either ludicrous, irrelevant, downright stupid, or just utterly selfish. The rug could be pulled out from under me any second, and then I would have something to really complain about.
I ran into a coworker in the hall who commented on the change in my mood.
"I'm not dying of a brain tumor!" I happily announced to him.
"Did you think you might be? But why were you in your office writing a brief?" His face exhibited befuddlement.
"Well, I had this headache and I thought it could be that, but then it dawned on me that I'm not dying right now from a brain tumor, and my kids won't have to experience the trauma of having a parent die when they are still little. I'm really happy," I explained.
My coworker, who himself had just experienced some devastating losses in his life recently, understood perfectly.
Perhaps it is a function of maturity, or perhaps a function of having experienced real, devastating loss, or just a function of getting a headache that shocked the selfishness out of my system by instilling the fear of my children suffering, or all of the above; I'm not certain what caused the shift in my thought-process. All I know is that it is crystal-clear to me how good I have it and how much I have to lose. It has dawned on me that I complain entirely too much about the little things, and don't spend enough time counting my blessings.
One of my resolutions for 2012 is to keep a gratitude journal. I read in an article about happiness which said that people who focus on the things they have to be grateful for are happier in life, and live longer. I told Skyler about the gratitude journal, and she gave me a pretty little bound book of blank pages.. She asked what "gratitude" means, and I explained simply, that it is thankfulness, and that I want to recognize and acknowledge all of the things in life for which I am thankful.
