One Problem with the Grouchy Approach to Life

I’m having another fairly delightful visit with my parents (I should really send a thank-you note to Del McCoury. I swear, ever since then, there’s just been a real change in the tenor of our visits.) in which we get a bunch of stuff done around the house, make many plans to cook delicious things, and eat at restaurants in Ashland City because, of course, we must go there twice in one day.

It’s lovely.

And so I’m half convinced one or the other of them is dying. Literally the only time they’re this nice for this prolonged a time is when something is terribly wrong.

But I have to say, I’m at the point where I’m like “Eh, fuck it. I’m just going to enjoy it.”

Even if they are going to make me go to church twice!!!

It’s funny, because, you know, I am among the many who find Christmas very difficult. Well, not Christmas. Usually, by this point in December, I’m feeling on firm ground once again and can enjoy the holidays (I mean, people, I’m going to church, because I’m having a good time hanging out with my parents, wtf?). But the couple of weeks before it are really grueling for me. But since it’s not usually a problem by the time they get here, I don’t mention it to them. It’s not their problem or anything.

Anyway, all of this is a long way of saying that my dad noted yet again that my grandma hates Christmas, doesn’t like getting presents, doesn’t like fussing or decorating or enjoying others’ decorations. And he’s made this observation before, but this year, I finally was like “I hear you, Grandma Doris.” It is hard and I hate getting things (though, like my Grandma, I appreciate a good present at any other time of the year) and I don’t want to decorate or undecorate.

And it make me feel closer to her, like we had something in common. And that is really nice.

I am in solidarity with you, Grandma.

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