Thanks for the Wings

Do you hear what I hear?
Those sleigh bells? Just a jing, jing, jing-a-ling? A ring-ting-ting, ting-aling, too?

If you don't hear it, you're a damn scrooge. If you do hear it, then you're already dead... I mean, it's already too late, because I'm about to lose my g'damn mind with holiday cheer. Those jingle bells are my trigger. One second, I'm just a (fairly) normal gal. Then: the transformation. The eyes go wide, the smile high fives both ears as it ricochets about, and a gleeful madness lights up the entire face. Instant jump into excited, Rocky at the top of the stairs - esque pose. Shopping bags appear in hand. Garland strings are suddenly wrapped about her person. Bulbs shoot out of her palms, Spiderman style. And a high pitched squeal lets loose. THIS is Christmas, baby. Get on board or get the hell out of her way!

There are two traditions more than anything that kick off the "holiday" season for me. Both involve my running about like a mad woman, being alarmingly happy, and sweating glitter.

The first is, of course, deckin' out the halls for Christmas (and Hanukkah).

When living in my tiny apartment, my decorations may have "overwhelmed" the space. Now that I have double the square footage to deal with (thanks, beau! #livinginsin2016), this is a whole new game. I've now lived out "on my own" (adult!) for over five years (old!), and every December I've been determined to do something new with my embellishments. BUT, every year it's been a similar process:

1. Attack Plan and Staging. Early November involves me hulking around furniture and determining layouts. For a month, the living room looks lopsided due to the gaping hole where a tree will go, and my OCD quietly freaks out. The apartment gets cleaned / organized in anticipation. Color scheme by room is determined in tandem with Step 2.
2. Hoarding and Taking Inventory. In addition to the stockpile of trimmings I already have (several totes worth), the post-holiday sale period finds me buying up all the 80% off bulbs and tinsel I can get my hands on. That, in combination with an assault on the dollar store as soon as the Christmas aisles appear (now in September), requires some serious need for taking inventory. This step lets me mentally divvy up how much glitz I have available to cram into each room. And, ya know, helps me figure out if I need even more stuff.
3. Bedeckin' the Feckin' Halls!* Surrounded by my festive pile, ready to festoon, a force to be reckoned with. Hot cocoa made (schnapps/Bailey's sloshed in in liberal doses). Elvis Christmas album on the record player (complete with all the scratches 49 cents can buy). It's a Wonderful Life DVD on the tele.** That last bit is utterly essential. With a 2h15m run time, it's just long enough for a top speed decorating dash. Starting with the building/trimming of my two trees, from there I work down by the boxes, Russian nesting dolling them as I go and booting them back to the attic. Once the pile of goods is gone, the process is complete.
4. Aftermath. From that moment until the New Year, every moment I am home, those lights are on and that cocoa is bubbling (electric bill, be damned!). I bask. I'm a basker. I want every ounce of holiday joy that I can squeeze out. I want it oozing outta my pores. When I die, I want to be the Ghost of Christmas Forever. I'm like the little girl who hugs Frosty to death. (Good to the last drop? ...Too soon?) - You get it.

Looks like a cold front is movin' in on my Blue Christmas...

This year, things didn't go quite to schedule though...

1. I didn't have time to plan. We've pretty much been busy since we moved in (six months ago!). I had no strategy or time to formulate a system. I went into this (snow) blind.
2. I didn't have free reign. I had to awkwardly kick the beau out so I could lose my mind without him seeing and deciding to break up with me / getting in my way. No, I couldn't share it with him. I'm not ready for that shit yet. (He was sick anyway, so he complied.)
3. It took longer than normal. That lack of plan really bit me in the ass. I spent a long time sitting, surrounded by tinsel, bulbs and menorahs, panicking and wondering if I was putting everything in the right place or if I was going to end up disappointing everyone (read: myself). Before I knew it, George Bailey was shrieking around Bedford Falls, saying hello to buildings, like a total nutter, and I didn't even have the living room finished! AKA I basically just finished decorating... just now. WAY behind schedule. What a waste of holi-days! (insert old man chuckle here)

The second kick-off to the season is my BEST workout night of the year: the night of the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show.

Every year, I excitedly await the annual stomping of the runway by my army of angels. These glorious, powerhouse women work so hard to earn those wings, and they use their status to do beautiful work all over the world (fun fact: this year's VS fashion show raised over $3 million for charity). Anyone who wants to hop up on my feminist soap box and argue this one with me, have at it. To all those who call this event "smutty" - it's time we change the conversation from one that openly objectifies women, to one that focuses on elaborate costume design, stunning stage choreography and the collaborative efforts of so many talented people to bring together one magical night. Let's focus on the diverse group of vibrant women who radiate confidence and are having fun at a job that encourages both physical and mental strength. Some are mothers, some are fresh faces, all are warriors. It's g'damn inspiring. Like, I wanna grow up to be a VS Angel. 

The one hour a year in which the show is broadcasted, it's no-holds-barred. They spend all year working their booties off in order to shine as they don their angelic wings. Me? I spend that hour paying homage to their hard work. While they catwalk as a show of force for all their efforts, I exercise my face off. Non-stop push-ups, sit-ups, kick boxing, jumping jacking, planking, dancing, weight lifting, whatevering - all that matters is an hour straight of 119% effort in whatever form of exercise goes best with the jams being played on the runway. If it's a meh T-Swift performance, I ninja around all the "push her off the stage" moves that I wish the models would use on her in real life. If it's a stellar classic rock montage (which they've been wise to open with the past few years), I bust out all the Sweatin' to the Oldies moves I practiced in my youth.

Thanks for the wings, darlings!

No matter what: I keep moving. I break a sweat, without letting them see me sweat, just like the badass celestial beings acting as my fitspo. By the time the fantasy bra struts out, I have burned off enough calories to make up for the boat load of cookies I'll be consuming on Christmas eve. By the time the class photo happens and the credits roll, I'm half in tears from excitement and half in tears because I forgot to stretch (EVERY year! Gah!). It's a divine feeling all around.

SO, have yourselves a holly jolly holiday, friends. It really is the best time of the year.
(And if holiday cheer isn't a big enough selling point for you: December also means that 2016 will finally end and can quit torturing us - and that is really something to celebrate!)





* Note: this step occurs after Thanksgiving. This is one rule I refuse to budge on - the second I give in, there will be no stopping me from putting my tree up in August.
** Is that what you want (Mary)? You want (the moon)... a blog post about It's a Wonderful Life?  Well, by Zuzu's petals, I think I shall need to do an entirely separate post about this movie! There are not enough words in this world to describe my obsession over it, but I'll sure as hell try to summarize. This post is already far too long to discuss here.