I don’t feel very Christmassy this year, but nor do I fall into the bah humbug category of Christmas. It’s interesting that when it comes to this particular holiday, it seems as though reactions are predicated on diametric polar opposites; you either love it or hate it. I fall into neither category; it’s just another day. I like the idea behind Christmas; reflecting on peace on earth and goodwill toward my fellow man, and so on. Those are lovely sentiments, but aren’t they things we should think about and focus on the entire year, rather than the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas? Maybe I am a humbug, I don’t know. It doesn’t help that I am ill.
My diaphragm is sore and I have a slight sinus headache and I feel like I have to cough all the time. I’m not feverish, and it’s more of a meh feeling than anything else. It’s the tickle in the back of my throat that’s especially making me nuts. And the soreness of my throat and the diaphragm, and the medicine-head feeling from the DayQuil. Paul seems to be doing better; it looked like he was at death’s door a couple of days ago, but he seems to be slowly coming out of it. I am hoping I’ll be over it by Friday, which starts my four-day weekend. I’m sure, though, once I get showered and cleaned up, stop at CVS for some cough drops etc, I’ll feel much better. At least I certainly hope so. I have a busy day at the office, and then of course tonight is the office Christmas party.
And at least I’m not congested. If I were, I’d have to kill myself.
I’ve started and given up on several young adult novels over the past few days as well–including some that were critically acclaimed and award winners. None of them passed the fifty page rule, and they all went into the donation pile. While it felt good to get the TBR pile down a bit, I was enormously disappointed; but A. S. King’s Reality Boy was so good it was bound to make anything I read after look not as good. And getting the TBR pile down is always a good thing, don’t you think? One would hope, at any rate.
I’ve become obsessed with Joan Didion, and I think my next read will be her A Book of Common Prayer. It’s kind of astonishing to me that I’ve never read anything she’s written (Miami is my current non-fiction read; I love the way she writes. I’m also thinking, re: a conversation I had with my friend Susan, about writing a memoir in the form of personal essays. This of course is the ultimate in hubris; why do I feel my observations and my experiences are so amazing that they need to be shared? But…it’s been an interesting life, and even if it doesn’t get published, it will help me personally to write such a thing. I actually started the other day because I don’t have enough else to do, right?).
And on that note, I’m going to straighten up this mess in the kitchen and get ready for work.
