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When I was a kid, I would get so excited for holidays like Christmas and Easter that I would throw up. I might have overdone it on sweets (which was a near impossibility in my mother's Healthy Living kitchen), but I tend to think that I was so filled with the spirit of the season that I would reach my threshold, pass it, and inevitably end up spewing holiday cheer everywhere. These past few years however, have found me in a state where I can barely muster up enough spirit to say "Have a merry Christmas!" to anyone, much less actually mean it. I don't know if my multi-year spiritless funk is enough to earn me a visit from my own personal Jacob Marley, but it does have me concerned that I've become so cynical and unhappy that I can't even squeeze a little joy out of the few days of year that are inherently filled with it. I pondered the thought this year as I was sitting in my grandparent's living room, waiting for the dinner bell for our family's annual Christmas Eve supper to ring... It had been snowing for the better part of two weeks -- a sticky, cold snow that clung to everything in a truly Currier & Ives kind of way that would probably make you want to hurl (if you'll pardon the expression) if it wasn't so damn beautiful. If the outside of my grandparent's home didn't look like Christmas, then the inside would have certainly made up for it. Poinsettias and nutcrackers and lights and candy canes abounded. I was slouching on the couch, curled up to my mother like a petulant teenager. I'd read once that family has a way of immediately stripping one's dignity -- leaving you wearing only your basest personality traits no matter who else was around -- and this was no less true with my family. My step sister and step father were gathered around the piano trying to sing Christmas carols while my grandparents set the table. My mother and I were reveling in how awful they sounded. My step sister had asked me earlier, as we were digging into appetizers, if I was excited for Christmas. It only took me a moment to respond. "Not really," I answered truthfully. "I am," she said sweetly. In that moment I wondered just what was wrong with me. Fifteen years ago, I was so excited I couldn't keep my appetizers down, and now I was lying limply on the couch obediently munching when I wasn't even hungry. The next day was Christmas, and I really couldn't have cared much less. I wasn't as miserable as it may sound -- I was glad to be home and happy to see my family. I love winter and my hometown looked like a snow globe. But as I lay there, my mom braiding little pieces of my hair like she used to, surrounded by Christmas music and decorations and family and even the promise of presents the next day, I couldn't stir one flutter of excitement inside myself, and I couldn't (and can't) figure out why. I stared at a nutcracker and concentrated on feeling joy. I knew I was forcing it and for a moment it almost worked. I could feel tenuous wisps of the excitement of seasons past, but in less than a moment they were gone. My grandmother came in then and announced that dinner was served. The holiday has come and gone and in a few short days I will be back in California and back at work. I'll be 3,000 miles away from where I came from, but I can't help but wonder if this state of apathy is proof that I'm even further away from where I should be going. You've got to wonder.
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