Even though this month contains my birthday, I wouldn’t mind being anesthetized each year from November 30th until January 1st. Yep, I’ll say it: I like snow and Andy Williams, but it is not the most wonderful time of year.
December sucks. Whose brilliant idea was it to combine finals weeks at schools, year-end inventories and evaluations at businesses, desperate spending of remaining vacation days, family obligations, icy roads, and a frenzy of travel and shopping, all in one month?
As my last post indicated, I’m not a fan of shopping. When I do have to shop, it is annoyingly difficult to find goods made in the U.S.A. instead of overseas sweatshops or to find things made from recycled or reclaimed materials. Plus, most Americans’ houses are full of enough stuff already and if they do need anything else, they’re understandably picky about what they want.
Then the month ends with every dipsomaniac’s favorite night, New Year’s Eve. As a teetotaler who still goes out and socializes, I usually get to drive everyone home. Please don’t puke in my car, party animals!
Anyway, when I was a bleach-blond teenager, I had a black-haired goth pen pal from Cheyenne and when dating letters, she rewrote this month’s name as “Deathcember.” Imagine living in sunny Wyoming in the 1980s and wearing black clothes, black lipstick, and black nail polish, and listening to depressing music all the time. She must have felt the whole year like I do this month.