It is the only time of year when the days feel slow to me, when the time outside of whatever tasks I have to do does not somehow vanish into further worry and busyness. It is the only time I don’t feel like I am perpetually late to my own life, and that easing of guilt offers a deeper rest than any vacation would. Helena Fitzgerald

I have been in nonstop holiday mode from the beginning of December to now, but I’m not in first class, and no one is wearing seatbelts! I’m not complaining. Much. There have been crazy traditions, champagne toasts, lots of white elephants, delectable food, and an overload of good cheer, but I’m feeling my age. I’m weary from all the frantic shopping, late nights, multiple festivities, and all those young people with more energy than PG & E.

What the hell?

Are we ready to retire 2022? With all her skyrocketing inflation, a strange surge of illnesses, deflated stock market, and now she’s throwing a historic hissy storm. I have this urge to turn around and embrace 2022 as if a naughty child who is overtired but resisting sleep, but I could be describing myself. 

Richelle Goodrich says, “past and present I know well; each is a friend and sometimes an enemy to me. But it is the quiet, beckoning Future, an absolute stranger, with whom I have fallen madly in love.”  

I admit to being overcome by the familiar desire to summarize the past, make some lame-ass resolutions, and lay out a complicated schedule of implausible plans for 2023. Resistance is futile, as if denying myself popcorn with a movie. It’s going to happen, but next week is soon enough.

I feel a little like Cinderella. My time is quickly dwindling while I dazzle my prince. All too soon, the clock will strike midnight, everything will return to status quo, and I won’t be able to find my damn shoe. 

The last days of the year are filled with returns, not only the clothes that don’t fit and bright blue yeti mugs, but my daughter is returning to the other coast, my kids are returning to work, my grandkids to school, and I’ll be left behind to define my return from the complexity of one indistinguishable day from the next.

It’s called retirement, and I’m not sure we thought it through.

I have the best of intentions, but more often than not, life has a way of derailing me, but that could be because we just watched Bullet Train, and the image of a commuter train crash landing in the center of my life is branded on my mind.

The period between Christmas and New Year is strange. I’m both pleased and relieved to have Christmas behind me, but now the days seem to stretch out before me as if a long and winding road (the theme song from our high school senior ball). I can’t remember the day of the week, let alone what I am supposed to do with all this unbudgeted time and no dinners to host? 

I have the desire to dedecorate the entire house but not the energy or inclination to actually do it. I want to write, but my thoughts are scattered like the leaves on the ground. Rake them, I say. But I sit and ponder the weather instead.

What in the world are we supposed to do with these days? Helena Fitzgerald says the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve is a time when nothing counts and when nothing is quite real.

It’s as if the entire world has taken a deep breath, a communal pause if you will, even the light narrows to a sliver as if a door closing. I envision the opportunities I will encounter or miss in the new year. I consider the unexpected demands on my emotions and time. And I acknowledge the bombshells that will throw me off course or, at the very least, toss me in a new direction. Will I use these moments to prosper or allow them to stigmatize my growth? 

The grandkids have been lounging at our house most of the day, that’s why we live across the street, so they can slide back and forth with ease. I built a fort with the twins and their new Lincoln Logs, after which I helped Audrey with her Harry Potter Lego Land, but the kids seem to understand that these days are meant to be wasted, to run, giggle, and wrestle with each other. I watch them with both envy and dismay. 

The house has been crammed with people for weeks, and Grammie might not be handling it so well. Could it be my countenance? I guess it’s rather obvious because suddenly Kelley decided to take Audrey to the grocery store, Julie took the twins to play at the school, Larry went to visit his parents, and Dante headed down south to work for a week.

I want to sit and bask in the silence for a while, but I opened my computer for the first time in weeks and allowed my fingers to lay down a few words, search my muddled brain for a new idea. I know. Who am I kidding? Everything has already been discovered, and I feel as if I’m stuck in the Truman Show. 

Kelley and Audrey return with a huge bag of groceries. Kelley starts chopping lettuce and such while she’s watching an episode of Fraiser on her phone. I’m listening to Roz storm into Fraiser’s apartment and demand a drink. He says, “I’ll get the sherry,” and she says, “don’t waste your time. I’ve got grown-up problems.” Oh, that’s rich.

We’re planning to eat all the leftovers crammed in the refrigerator tonight with Kelley’s salad, a smorgasbord of sorts, and I admit I’m anxious for an empty refrigerator, one that is ready to accommodate my healthy new diet plan that will be well-intentioned, but short-lived and unsuccessful. I know. Just allow me my ridiculous fantasies during dead week.

Maybe these days are just what they seem, buffers before the New Year descends on us, and we’re once again imprisoned by our patterns, our obligations, our wayward goals. As Helena Fitzgerald notes, “we celebrate it all the same, by eating cheese and cake for breakfast, getting drunk at inappropriate hours, not looking at calendars or clocks, forgetting what day it is, wearing outfits that make no sense, ignoring our phones, and falling into a pointless internet rabbit hole for hours. Lots of people have either just returned from family visits or are still there, stuck in the half-familiarity of being an adult in the spaces of childhood. We celebrate Dead Week by having no idea what to do during Dead Week and, within that confusion, quietly luxuriating in what might be the only collective chance for deep rest all year.”

So I’m going to embrace the confusion and disorder for a few more days by not trying to put everything back in place, ignoring the hands on the clock and the interior scoldings that keep urging me to accomplish something. I’m going to be late on my blog again, but if dead week is anything, it’s forgiving. These meandering days offer us a moment of grace, no rush, no worry. Spending the day in your pajamas, watching reruns of Fraiser, and avoiding all mirrors is enough.

I’m aware that time can be stingy. There are no refunds or exchanges if you don’t like how things look at the end of the year. This year maybe I won’t add any new resolutions but make a commitment to stop doing the things that are a waste of time in exchange for the things I love. Like writing, reading, playing with the grandkids, traveling with my prince, and watching the sunrise on the other side of the world. The sun has the potential to bring all sorts of things to light if we can stop the madness for a while and take notice. This is the fruition of dead week, when we toss 2022 in the recycle bin, observe the dawning of a new year with our feet up on the barcalounger, and the Christmas wrap still scattered on the floor.

Happy New Year!

I’m Living in the Gap, enjoying Dead Week, and you?