It's solidly December.
And I hate December.
For starters, it's my birth month, and I'm not a fan of my birthday. Every year I set goals for my next year, and every year, I fail to reach those goals. And yet, year after year, I trick myself into thinking this will be the year! This will most definitely be the year!
It never is.
Here I stand, in December 2012, already setting my unreachable, unreasonable goals for next year, and already annoyed with myself because I know I'm not going to reach them. I spend an inordinate amount of time on my birthday looking back at the previous year, trying to figure out what I learned in the preceding 364 days, to decide where I failed and where I succeeded. This used to be a fun exercise, back in the day. But now - meh.
Then of course there's New Years, the light at the end of my December tunnel, the holy grail for goal setters like me. I've been making the same resolution every year for the past, oh, 20 years, maybe? Really, people: am I ever gonna get there? I think we both know the answer. Yet year after year I struggle against the tide, refusing to give up on future me.
So it's sort of the season of futility, for me.
Add to that the never-ending of list of things to be done and people to be seen and parties to be had and it all gets to be a bit much for me.
I am better than I used to be, before I had kids. Because now there is Santa! And presents! And cookies! And I'll admit my kids' enthusiasm is infectious. Then again, is it just me, or do you notice that your children turn especially nutty around the holidays? Too much excitement and anticipation to contain.
So between the kids' enthusiasm and my lack thereof, it's a strange season indeed.
Today we haul the boxes out of storage and start decorating the trees. Wish me luck!