|I wish I was one of these people.|
"It was nice, but way too short."
"I was way too tired."
People's comments about their holiday could easily be considered some sort of sexual double entendre. But then again, I have been reading a lot of Augusten Burroughs. My brain is tainted.
Anyway, I would agree. Christmas is way too short. This year I took a total of zero pictures, baked no cookies, and didn't play in the snow because there wasn't any on the ground. I didn't even eat too much because I lost my sense of taste thanks to a crippling sinus cold. Don't buy into Cosmo's gimmicks for keeping thin over the holidays (no alcohol at parties... only one mini hotdog a day... instead of cheesecake chew on ice cubes wrapped in salted aluminum foil). Just go into the closest preschool/hospital/mall and pick up a disease instead. You'll be too sick to eat for a week.
Because I can't remember a date to save my life, I missed the annual Christmas Eve fun run. I thought it was supposed to be on Christmas day. Whoops.
But Montana and I did get to go on a long run in the woods on Christmas Eve. The trails were pretty much clear, and the weather decided to be nice for a change. The run would've been great if I hadn't been wheezing and coughing up clods of mucus the whole time. Even though I was hacking like a cat with an intestinal parasite, Montana never dropped me. He wins the good boyfriend award of the day.
The next day, I got some shweet running shwag from the Santa-people in my life. Notably a couple pairs of cool-kid compression tights and one insanely bright sweatshirt, which I promptly threw on and paraded about the house before giving them a good inaugural coating of sweat.
Then on Monday it was back to work, where I got to sell twinkle lights for half off and listen to people complain about how short their Christmasses were.
And now I think I'll go eat some leftover cheesecake if it's not molded over yet.