no room for
Two hours of unwrapping boxes, and then a wide, stretchy yawn and a much-needed potty break.
So that’s it? After the fury of parking lots and department stores and credit card receipts, anticipation puffing out the season like a set of implants, Advent’s over? Ahh … how great it feels to void the bladder. All that eggnog!
Back to the living room: Ground Zero, now without the frenzy – cardboard and tissue and plastic-packaged merchandise heaped around the coffee table epicenter. Secrets formerly masked by giftwrap, finally revealed, only camouflage themselves amid the rubble, rehidden, making the entire affair seem much ado, just ribbon and glitter and tinsel and zilch.
Did we miss something? Maybe we should have bought more.
Cleanup time – surprisingly simple for the plodding preparations that went into the day. The decorations and tree will stay up another week, and that is all. Then eleven months and repeat, eleven months and repeat, years marked by doing December doings in a chronologic chain leading back to the first secret gift: zero hour of human history. How strange that time should measure itself by an event quite easily elbowed out by the jam-packed, hectic rush, no room for