So y’all get it, right? I’m not a fan of the holidays. I’m also pretty sure I’ve had more than one blog post entitled, “Scrooge”, so I named this one differently.
I put too much pressure on myself. I need to get the “perfect” gifts. I need to make the “perfect” meals. I need to entertain “perfectly”. My answer to all this needed perfection is to lay in bed and do nothing, so it can’t possibly be a bummer/failure. If I don’t do it to begin with, I can’t screw up on it. (Dear Therapist I Used to Go To: I remember I am supposed to allow myself three mistakes a day, I do.)
But today I felt better than I have in a while, so I brought the kept-together pre-lit fake Christmas tree up from the basement and plopped it in its designated area in the living room. A) this is early in the year for me to put it up if I put it up at all; B) this is the first time in seven years I’ve put it up vs. the kids or Marty putting it up since I saw any decorating as a huge effort.
This pic is evidence of just how much I care what my seven-year old tree looks like (I clearly should have taken this tag off on year one). And there are no ornaments, just this tag and some toxic lead-embedded ribbon from China. Those ornaments y’all love and I love are too much work. I’m pretending this tag is an ornament. Screw it, there’s a tree up.
Check out this link about migraines and depression: Humpf, I think they know me somehow.