Christmastime and the Big To-Do
It was early last Monday morning when my holiday countdown began in earnest. As panic attacks go, I suppose this one was mild--some shallow breathing and a sensation of blood rushing to the head.
It felt sort of like the symptoms of road rage, only in my kitchen.
This wasn’t free-floating anxiety; it was focused: Can I possibly get all the folderol of Christmas dispensed with in time? And when is the last possible second I can keep forgetting to buy Scotch tape before it’s too late?
Organization seemed to be called for here, so I picked up a used Christmas card envelope and began ticking off a “Things to Do” list on the back:
Potluck--what make?
Secret Santa gift--when get?
Holiday party--what wear? Need clean?
Christmas tree--when chop?
Gifts--when wrap?
Wrapping paper--got?
Christmas--when is?
A general feeling of not being on top of things took over. I just wasn’t playing with a full string of twinkle lights here. Time to find that bad bulb.
Actually, I can date the exact hour the shallow breathing first manifested itself. I had signed and sealed my last Christmas card the preceding afternoon. My thinking had been to swing by the main Ventura post office before 9 a.m. Monday, buy a sheet of pretty stamps and get a jump on mailing my cards.
At 7:07 a.m. on Monday, a “Today” show host announced that this would be the busiest day of the year at the post office.
Shouldn’t I have known that? Was I suffering from some sort of planning disorder?
So at 8:50 I queued up as the 19th person in line at the post office, behind 18 people who were all clutching big boxes to be weighed, stamped and sent out of state.
Right then I added two more items to my “Things to Do” list:
Planning--do better.
Saint Johnswort--up dosage.
I had begun the week guilt-ridden already. On all my holiday cards I had stuck one of those personalized return address labels that charities send to you unsolicited. You are supposed to send a donation back in the convenient return envelope that is always included.
It didn’t matter which cause--the Olympics, UNICEF, AIDS, Easter Seals--I’d never paid up for the labels. Thus, the little prick of guilt every time I licked one. I was also worried I would run out of them before I ran out of must-send cards.
Morally, I placed it somewhere between a little worse than jaywalking but not as bad as parking in a space for the handicapped.
*
By Wednesday, I was focusing on my gift disorder, which is an uncanny ability to pick exactly the wrong present. After three decades of marriage I still buy my husband long-sleeved shirts that are 4 inches too short. He always tries to hunch up his shoulders when he tries them on Christmas morning to make a good show of it. I once bought him jogging shorts six months after bad ankles forced him to stop running.
The gift disorder also involved dithering over how much to spend on presents. What is my dollar-amount gift relationship with this particular person? Important gift? Regular? Token?
The only thing I handled with dispatch last week was the Monterey pine tree. Having long given up on the “warm family outing” fantasy, I squeezed the tree purchase into another errand on Tuesday, making a quick stop at Wright’s Tree Farm in Ojai. Drove in. Killed motor. Got saw. Sawed tree closest to car. Tied on roof. Paid. Drove out.
*
So many deadlines, so little time. But on Thursday, I was at least able to mark off the chili for the office potluck, following the potluck. On Friday I wrapped four gifts and gave thought to the two covered dishes I was to contribute to the Christmas dinner. Yam casserole--relatives like?
On Saturday I remembered that I’d forgotten to tack a gift for my husband on my “Gifts to Buy” list. But at least I’m thinking about it. He probably prefers I just give him cash. Anyway, 96 hours to go.
By today, the only thing I should have on my “Things to Do” list, but don’t, is “Relax--how do?”
