It starts with a list. A list that outlines everything under the sun that needs to get done by next Whatever-day. And it propels itself from there, changing and morphing —- checked off, crossed out, question marks that depict the course I have charted for myself on this Battle Ship of Christmas.
At first, the list is pristine and perfect. But as times goes on, it becomes more of a puzzle that needs to be whittled down in order for me to comprehend it. I need to keep on my toes so that it is not the master of me but I am the master of it, this list. But I know I’m fooling myself because my entire life is invested in the items that are detailed on this list, similar to how an engineer must feel when he is creating the blueprint for a high-rise.
Regardless, I edit and review and highlight and cling to my list as if it is the map that will reveal to me my schedule. But there comes a moment, no matter what I do there comes a fucking moment when I feel that the list has gotten away from me and I just have to trust in Santa that all will get purchased and done. Which brings me to my point and my conclusion:
IT REALLY ISN’T CHRISTMAS UNTIL YOU’RE DROWNING IN HEART-PALPATATING I’LL-NEVER-GET-THIS-DONE-NESS AND OVERWHELMING CONFUSION.
Yours In 13x9x2 Casserole Pans,
Loretta the Lost Elf