I did something I never, ever do yesterday: I clicked "decline" on an incoming phone call from my mom & texted, "Don't want to talk right now." Thankfully, she was understanding, as she always is, & I retreated back into a hole of sadness & moping.
Why?
Because I ruined Christmas, & Christmas hasn't even come yet.
Wait, let me back up. Mike left for D.C. yesterday with his parents & sister, where they're visiting aunts, uncles, & his grandmother. He'll of course be gone, then, on Christmas Day, so we decided we'd just do our own little version of Christmas upon his return - recreate the Christmas we would've spent together, really do it up.
He won't be back until late night, so we figured that would be our "Christmas Eve" - we'll open one gift apiece & we'll put together the gingerbread house from the kit my mom gifted us for Hanukkah (#interfaithlife); the next day was to be "Christmas Day," complete with wearing new flannel PJs & making brunch together & maybe going to the movies & just... doing everything we would do on Christmas, except a day later.
But yesterday, a couple of hours after Mike hit the road, I realized with a terrible start: I think we got the dates wrong.
I thought he was coming home Saturday night & that we'd do a Saturday/Sunday Christmas. In actuality, it turns out, Mike gets home Sunday night & had been planning for a Sunday/Monday Christmas. But I don't have Monday off of work. We just got our wires completely crossed, & the result is that we have no time for our own Christmas.
This is such a thing that I would do.
And it means that when he gets home late on Sunday night, we have to squish everything into an hour or two - the gifts, at least, though we probably won't have time for the rest. Maybe we'll watch his favorite Christmas movie, Die Hard, on Netflix or something, but we certainly won't have time to see a movie in the theater. And why bother with a gingerbread house?
When I realized this, I basically lost my shit, to use official terminology.
I was furious with myself for getting this wrong, & I was devastated to realize we wouldn't get to have our first a Christmas together, even a fake one. I cried hard. I sent a bunch of mopey text messages. I took a nap & woke up groggy & angry. I returned our holiday pajamas to Target. I would've thrown away the gingerbread house kit, too, but I was too sad & lazy & tired to go down to the Dumpster by the time I remembered that I wanted to do it. And then I hunkered down in a book for hours, blocking out the world.
Today, I woke up less angry but still really, really disappointed. I'm still excited to give Mike the gifts I bought him, but this... doesn't count as a Christmas, not really. And look, I still feel fortunate & blessed & all of that, so don't give me grief about gratefulness; I know I have a great life & an incredible love & not a damn thing to complain about, & for all that, I am immensely thankful. But I still can't help but be really bummed about the sudden lack of celebration, especially after we'd gotten so excited about our plans together.
Perhaps this is a reminder that Jews shouldn't celebrate Christmas, or at least a lesson to me to start paying closer attention to our joint Google Calendar. In the meantime, merry Christmas. I'll be watching Top Chef reruns & reading every book & eating my body weight in cookies. Gotta celebrate somehow, right?
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