Stocking Stress

Today started out so full of promise. And then….

It went to shit.

Now, and only because I’m working really hard to find them, can I find the blessings.

I woke up excited for the long holiday weekend. I had planned to put up my Christmas decorations, sip on hot cider, and revel in the “magic” of the season.

Here’s what really happened: the tree fell down, the cider was expired, and my daughter was much more interested in watching a Barbie movie then she was in hanging ornaments.

I tried to move past my frustrations, and forge ahead, determined to make holidays in my home like the feel good ones fabricated in Lifetime movies.

And then, it came time to hang up the stockings. A simple task – right? Not so much.

I pulled out four stockings – a painful reminder of my “old life” – the one with the cheerful yellow colonial on a cul-de-sac, perfectly manicured yard, husband pouring bourbons, daughter asking for more treats, dog pacing at the door eager to play in the snow.

I suddenly froze – shit! What do I do? The husband is gone, the dog is dead, and now I’m left with the dilemma of how just how many stockings to hang?

I mean it seems crazy not to use all four hooks already screwed into the woodwork, especially given what I paid for these freakin stockings to begin with. But is it weird? To hang four stockings for two people? Do people have “guest stockings?” If I hang them all, am I then setting up the expectation that Santa has to fill the extras?

It all seemed like too much, especially given that my daughter would be spending the evening with her dad and his new family. I wonder how many stockings they have.

I left my own stocking situation for later, and decided to switch gears. It was then that I realized that balancing my checkbook is certainly not the way to make myself feel better. Neither is scrolling through social media feeds that only seem to emphasize just how much your holiday sucks in comparison to your 769 closest Facebook friends. The afternoon got considerably worse when a loved one let me down.

I honestly didn’t feel like doing anything at this point, except perhaps pouring a goblet of Merlot and binge watching the Real Housewives series. However, I had previously committed to Thanksgiving dinner with a close friend and her family. Given the day’s debacles, I didn’t know if I had it in me to slap on a smile and bring forth “good tidings”. But, as someone who feels morally committed to keep every obligation I make, I went.

It was absolutely the right move, and where I found the tiniest of blessings seated around a table with three adolescent boys, two stressed-out parents, and a grandma who talked to me about my spirit animals. In typical teenage fashion, the boys shared stories about how lame they find their parents, and mockingly insisted on saying “grace” after all opening dinner comment remarks. Their dad teased me about my lack of domestic skills. Their mom laughed off the strand of hair that managed to find its way into the green bean casserole.

Something about the complete silliness of it all, the unfiltered nitty gritty, the hashtag free stories shared between bits of turkey and stuffing made me not only glad I went, but longing to stay.