Happy Christmas

I am knee-deep in melancholy this lonely Christmas Eve. It's odd that it would befall me so, since I've been in better spirits these last few weeks, working a lot of hours at a job I do not loathe that appears I have not yet been tossed out of,* but darned if I wasn't overcome with a bout of peanut-butter-thick unhappiness this afternoon and evening, weighing me down like an overweight conjoined twin.

I'm not entirely sure what brought it on. Perhaps it was the realization that the holiday has arrived, and my situation has not improved. Perhaps it was the anxiousness in my coworkers as they awaited their time to go home so they could be with their families, lovers, or Christmas parties. Perhaps it was that darn Eagles song that I heard (and sang along to) twice today, or that my car refused to start yesterday and this afternoon, or that the sky was grey and overcast even at two p.m.. Or maybe it's because the lass I fancy at work was there today, chatting it up with others, and giving me a rather significant miss.

I did try to engage her in conversation once (I believe one onlooker was quoted as saying, "Oh, the humanity!"), and asked her what time she was off. When she told me, I suggested she come by my desk before she took off, and I'd either declare my undying love for her or wish her a Happy Christmas. Either/or.

Hey, I thought it was charming. But life has certainly taught me that whatever I think is cute, clever, charming, creative, classy, or cool . . . is probably the opposite. To drive home my point, she did wish people plenty of Joyeux Noel, but walked on by me with nary a wave. Sigh.

Could that be it? Am I really thirteen years old again?

Or twenty-two?

Or Thirty?

"Sigh," if I haven't already said it.

Alrighty then, I've two options:
1. Wallow. Wallow like the swine that I wish I had the chesthair and testosterone to be. Turn on the Jeff Buckley and Aimee Mann, and imagine the sweet embrace of a cold and abandoned grave.
or 2. Do something to improve my mood. Something that'll make me smile. Something that'll engage my mind, entertain my kidneys, warm my cockles.

But what?

How about I write up this happy crappy in my blog, and send a couple emails, and wrap some presents, and see if I can't pull out of this barrel-roll before I pull a Jek Porkins on the surface of the Death Star?

Mmmm, STAR WARS. That makes me happy.

What else?

Oh yeah. This has delighted me for years:


Also, every Christmas Eve, my friend Jeff has a tradition of watching his favorite holiday movie. I believe he makes his wife sit through it too, whether she wants to or not. What a great tradition.

So, in honor of him (and it), I bring you this:


Rish "Zuzu's Petals" Outfield

P.S. "What's Christmas but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer? If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart!"

*Little did I know when typing this, but I'd be laid off (over the phone) two days later.