I like it and I feel it

I like this time of year.

I like the insanity that unfolds inside of a grocery store. Nothing sold out, but your newly discovered, shopper fight-or-flight self leaping toward a shelf in a way you haven’t since you were a child in the gas station candy aisle. Racing against the clock as you run back to find the one item you forgot, hoping the Designated Cart Watcher doesn’t reach the register before you return. Making eye contact with them over the heads of other stressed shoppers to gauge whether it should be an olympic sprint or a leisurely stroll back to the checkout lane. Giggling as you see people picking up the typical items — green beans, aluminum foil, cheese — only to turn around and pick up the butter you’d promised. A unique makeup of people rushing in through automatic doors in their sweatpants meant only for home and hair they thought no one would see, sent out by the house chef for the items they forgot when they shopped last week. Everyone’s list looks different, pages long or slowly disappearing from their minds as they roam the aisles.

I like the unruly madness of the streets. Cutting through and speed walking past strangers on the sidewalk in a secret, olympic-level race to the same fully stocked (or picked-over) shelves you’re all headed to. Driving the slowest you ever have driven in your life while you search for the best available parking space; convincing yourself and your passenger that you can find something better and will “come back to this one” if you don’t; circling back to find it had been taken by someone with better snap decision making skills. The nonstop lane switching on the highway in hopes of gaining a few centimeters on your fellow drivers, only to see the lane you abandoned gain inches on you at the next interchange. Once the busy hours have simmered, that silence and solace of driving around this place you only come a few times a year, filled with shiny streets and trimmed with soft lights.

I like the feeling of stomachs working overtime. Potluck dinners with dishes you wouldn’t even dream of the other months of the year. Laughter that feels like a combination of 100 sit ups and 100 hours of yoga, almost as if you haven’t thought to laugh this much since the last time you were all together. Big fancy — or not-at-all-fancy — breakfasts that dad only cooks on special occasions, where the beverages are limitless. A flood of butterflies when you spot the ex who you’ve tried to forget, when you see the family members you’ve been meaning to call, when you share the newest life announcement with the people you’ve chosen to be yours. Warm and tucked into layers of tights, sweaters, slacks, belts, jackets, vests, skirts, sequins. The snacks and treats you obsess over but seem never to crave in your normal life. The absence of knots that you’ve been yearning for all year.

I like the absolute mayhem of shopping. Strip malls, suburban malls, outdoor malls. Targets, Macy’s, Dick’s. Thinking you’d figured out who you need to shop for only to realize you’d forgotten almost every person that counts. Everyone around you seeming like this is their first time in a store or in a public place with other human beings, as they trudge through aisles with big empty carts and panic-filled eyes darting from shelf to shelf. No one dressed appropriately for the freezing exterior vs. boiling interior temperatures — sweaty matted hair, hot limbs piled high with coats and scarves, socks slipping down heels. Holding up a sweater and screaming at your shopping partner to ask if they think the giftee “would like this one? But would they really like it? But what about the thing from the last place? Would they like that more?” Throwing your hands up in exhaustion and failure as you conduct an FBI-inspired search for the nearest Auntie Anne’s or local Mexican restaurant or Chili’s Bar & Grill. The feeling of camaraderie when you’re in this giant place looking for the same thing everyone else is looking for, and yet something entirely unique.

I like sleeping somewhere that isn’t yours. Couches and pull outs and bunk beds, all small enough to fit you and you alone. Sheets with strange stripes or flowers, a picture into what your hosts once found special and comforting but now only good enough for guests. A strange combination of pillows, making it so everyone in the house is not quite propped up enough, but excited, nonetheless, to have these many heads on flattened pillows. Announcing that you’re going to bed only to sit on the guest-prepared blow up and chat for another 30 minutes about things that could absolutely wait until tomorrow. That cozy feeling of returning after a long day — of socializing or shopping or planning — to the little space you’ve carved out for yourself, protected by the extra blankets and hum of the silence.

I like traditions, even when they don’t feel like traditions. Traipsing all over town to see houses with insane Christmas lights, and (what must be) insane electric bills to match. The fancy dinner with grandparents and aunt and uncles, everyone dressed up in ties and shoes they can’t wait to take off in the car. Putting decor up together and having the same arguments you always do, wondering why you didn’t fix that problem last year. The Big Run to the liquor store, ensuring there will be options for every thirst that comes up. Rolling, cutting, baking, frosting, eating some of the ugliest and tastiest cookies ever created. Having an annual lunch with a friend to catch up on all the changes you’ve watched unfold online during the last year. Settling into what you know is tried, true and effortless.

I feel it, too. 

I feel the subtle bulldoze of grief. The one that you think you’re avoiding so well but then suddenly comes to knock you over at the sight or smell of a memory you hadn’t even realized you’d missed. The first feeling after you wake up when you’re forced to remember what won’t be this year. An empty chair or an empty bed, an old tradition shaken loose in the same breath a new one is forced on you. Relationships that used to be simple and easy, now difficult and unknown. The comfort in the conversations replaced by tiptoeing and restraint. The grief is almost enough to eat you, burn you, drown you or suffocate you in a single sweep.

I feel the uneven balancing act of anticipation, enjoyment, and regret. So many plans, or so few plans. Expectations set at an unattainable level no matter where the bar lands. It’s confidence-boosting outfits and a new job to talk about; it’s quick catch-ups over drinks and short laughs about things that you’d forgotten were funny; it’s remembering you meant to get a photo and realizing you didn’t ask that question you actually wanted the answer to. New babies, new spouses, old news, bad endings. Firsts and lasts across the board, and no one knows quite how to prepare for any of them.

I feel the stress that never seems to dissolve. Travel plans littered with costs way out of range and ETAs you can’t possibly calculate. Early arrivals, late departures, trips cut short or recalibrated halfway through. No less than a million things to do, with the only thing more stressful than an huge, itemized agenda being no plan, paired with never ending “shoulds” people keep casually putting on you. Stress on your skin, your feet, your heart  — all trying to adjust to this new normal for the next 24 to 168 hours. The stress on relationships that are kept alive in large part due to thousands of miles between the two parties, now with only a ten-minute car ride between them. Not knowing what to get or what to say or how to show up, a stress you’ve felt 100 times in the last year but now carries new weight. 

I feel the old version of myself come to life (again) and die (again). The first part, with you reminding everyone who you are and why they’ve missed you so much — that memory was wild, that situation was hilarious, what a sad thing we did, how did we make it to here? The old essence of who you were when you were in this place before, flowing so easily back into your veins that you didn’t realize just how much you’ve changed. And the second part, spending what feels like a fraction of the time trying to softly introduce the new person you’re trying to grow into. Saying goodbye, again, to that old version as the new version barely gets its feet wet in this new-to-her social pool — never without fear that the old version is the only option. Constantly assuming the “If it ain't broke, don’t fix it.” mentality is rolling through your once-closest companions heads as they listen to you talk about the new plans and goals and vision you’ve built in the safety of your own brain.

I like and I feel the chaos that comes with the holidays. Emotional chaos, logistical chaos, planned and unexpected chaos. It feels hard and fun, it feels awful and wonderful. People spending time together and people spending time apart, everyone doing what they like best or what they hate most. I like twinkly lights that feel like a blanket when you look at them. I feel excited for everything to come and I’m already sad that it’s over.

I like it and I feel it. 
I work hard to like it and feel it — and I hope you do too.