Wishing You a Magical Holiday Season with Rainbows and Wishes and Vomit

There is only one thing I hate about the holidays--other than the creepy jingle "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"--and it is picking out Christmas cards.

I was in Vons this morning sifting through the meager selection of holiday greetings and found myself audibly expressing my disgust over the course of the 30 minutes I spent standing there praying to find something that was somewhat okay. If the cards weren't over-the-top, barf-in-my-mouth sappy ("May the spirit of Christmas and the magical joys of the season burn brightly in your heart"), they were just plain dumb ("Ho-Ho-Hope you have a Merry Christmas!"). Then there were the ones that looked somewhat okay from the outside, then, upon opening, surprised me with some god-awful pun about eggnog, or farts, or both.

Who writes these cards? Who get PAID to write these cards? I would like to know. And I would like to shake these people and ask them what horrific event happened in their lives that must have poisoned their minds in order to write the dumbest shit I have ever read in my life, slap it together with some stereotypical images of fireplaces and snow falling, and stick it on the grocery store shelves so well-intentioned people (like me) want to murder someone because we can't find a Christmas card that isn't completely asinine?

Anyway. I hate them.

One-a Those Days ...

Do you ever have those days where you just want to lay in bed?
And you know you should be doing something, so you kinda troll around on the Internet purposelessly, all the while hating yourself for not actually being productive?
When you know you should be writing but nothing sounds like less fun than actually thinking?
When your friends call and see if you want to hang out but you can't convince yourself to peel back the covers?
And instead you eat left-over pasta feeling like a total fat-ass but you just can't stop eating crap so you fall into the eat, self-loathe, eat-more cycle?
But then you have moment of clarity and think, 'hey I should join a gym'?
And so you check to see if there is a 24-Hour Fitness near you and you discover that there are two, and decide, why not sign up for a whole year without even going in to check the facilities out first?
Because the one nearest you has a steamroom and you really like those?
And then you realize you just spent $250 to go to a place that people have reviewed online as 'disgusting'?
So you have to force yourself out of bed, put on workout clothes and drive over there?
And the first thing you think when you go inside is how you've fallen very far since your Equinox Pasadena days?
But then you justify your hesitation by noticing how nice the guy at the counter is?
Except that he doesn't offer to give you a tour (like the woman at Equinox did ...)?
And when you get into the locker room you almost smack right into a butt-naked woman?
And then you go on the elliptical for 30 minutes and feel like you're going to go into cardiac arrest the entire time?
And you really wanted to use the steamroom but you're too tired to even find it, and too lazy to ask, so you leave feeling like this whole gym idea was a waste of time?
And then you get home, shower, and put yourself right back under those covers?
And then you negate your 30 minute workout by eating Cheetos?
And then you try to write a blog post in second person questions?

Four Score--Seasons--or One Year Ago

Since eighth grade, I've kept a diary fairly regularly. After I write down the super-intriguing details of my incredibly exciting existence I often enjoy flipping back to the same day the year before to see what I was up to. Usually, I rediscover how dumb I used to be. Looking back is something I do often, not just in my journal because I like to make myself feel better knowing I'm slightly less idiotic today than I was a year ago, but more due to the occupational hazard that memoir writing depends on my ability to go back to the past and try to make sense of it.

This fall, however, I've been watching the show Flash Forward (by myself, no one else I know tunes in), and I find it fascinating in how the show's main concept reverses my whole "looking back" thing. The basic premise is the world blacks out for a couple minutes, everyone sees where they will be in six months, and some of them freak out because they don't want these futures to come true. And in worrying, the characters change and in effect turn their visions into self-fulfilling prophecies. For example, we see one husband and wife begin to drift apart because of insecurities that develop within their relationship. The wife's vision? She was in bed with another man. Oooh ... drama ...

And, since I attempt to analyze anything and everything with little more than pop-cultural significance, I think it's interesting how the show relates to the principle of manifestation: if you believe you'll do or be something, your thoughts will inevitably influence your actions, putting you on a path toward whatever course your mind has set for you. While I do believe in the power of positive thinking and having a good attitude, catching a specific glimpse of what supposedly will be would totally throw me off. Like, if one year ago someone told me that, today, I would be living by the beach, surrounded by a great group of friends who live either in my apartment (roommate) or mere blocks away, and in love with an amazing guy--who I hadn't even met yet--I'm sure I would've called bullshit. Actually, knowing then that I would be so happy now probably would have terrified me because I'm cool like that.

If I'd been better at regularly journaling one year ago, I would look back to see that, at this time last year, I was supposedly celebrating my anniversary with the ex-boyfriend. I say supposedly because we had been fighting like crazy and deliberating our relationship for weeks--so much so I'd suggested we not make a big deal out of our four-year-milestone. And, had we stayed together, today would have made five. Back then I was so confused about what I wanted--about what I was supposed to want, really--and, frankly, I was miserable. And, true to form, when I look back at who I was 365 days ago, that version of me was sublimely idiotic. (Mainly because I was already infatuated with a new guy and thought embarking on a pseudo-relationship with him would make everything all better. Uh, nope.)

So here's to another lap around the sun, the imminent coming of the year two-thousand-ten. I expect to be much, much cooler by this time next year. (But happier? Not possible.)