Yeah, I'm at that point. I have a feeling that Christmas does this to me every year, but I find other events to blame it on. Maybe it's the three-story sock pile in the second bedroom. Or the crusty pizza stone on the counter. Or maybe it's the seventeen bags of recycling lounging in the kitchen waiting for one of us to finally drive it three blocks to the recycling station. (More about my OCD later.) You're not going to pull the wool over my eyes this year, Christmas. YOU are to blame.
My husband's name is Rigatoni, by the way. I mean, not really, but on this blog it is. Whatever works, right? Last night I contemplated setting Rigatoni's ugly blue chair on fire after an argument about Christmas presents. Actually, multiple remarks and snarks got the ball rolling, per say, on the argument. The day before, I may have mentioned to him while we were driving that I was going to turn his airbag off. Perhaps that's where it really started...
Either way, the fact is that I vowed one year ago this Christmas that I would stop spending in December like it was going out of style. I would stop using that visa so much that the black strip on the back felt warm at the end of a shopping day. I would stop wrapping eighty presents all marked "To: Rigatoni". I would stop going into holiday debt. The irony behind all of this is that I'm more than aware of the meaning of Christmas.
In the end, Christmas isn't really to blame, but it's hilarious to attribute overreactions/crying/temper tantrums on said holiday because no normal 30-year-old has temper tantrums, right? I'm partially to blame for making it all about the presents year after year and then stopping short last year without a thorough explanation. He is partially to blame for buying me such good shit the last 10 years. Rigatoni and I should talk about this (again) tonight; then I can finish wrapping his six presents. Baby steps.
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