Why is it that—sometimes—getting though the Christmas season
feels like you’re behind the wheel of a car, no a school bus full of kids,
that’s sliding downhill on an icy road…
And the breaks don’t work,
And the kids are screaming (or laughing—can’t tell
sometimes…),
And at the bottom of the hill there’s a lake,
And the lake is covered with ice, but the ice is not thick
enough to prevent a school bus full of screaming/laughing kids from falling in,
And just under the ice are severely underfed sharks (of
course, how there could be underfed sharks in a semi-frozen lake is pretty much
impossible, or highly, highly unlikely, but that’s not important…),
And you’re supposed to be thinking about the birth of Christ
instead of buying stuff and getting the best price possible for said stuff or
deciding which family to visit/not visit, and the reason you can’t focus on the
most important aspect of Christmas is because there’s so much to do and time—for
some strange reason—shifts into the top gear and, like a jet, races to the end
of the year?
Yeah...I don't know either.
But last night, as I made some final adjustments on a
manuscript so I could e-mail it to my editor, the family decorated our new
Christmas tree. If only I could just sit and look at it for a couple of days.
Maybe the reason the Christmas season get so crazy...
It's because it's so worth it.
Maybe.
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