Tuesday morning finds me wide awake, though my head is still tight and fuzzy inside. I've checked the weather and am facing the only dilemma one really should face at this time of year, not, “should I re-gift this?” or “is it okay to have more mince pie?” but “what do I wear on a workday in December with a projected high of eighty?” I have an angora sweater I'd planned to wear before consulting the weather reports last night, but angora and air conditioning would act at cross purposes, I think, and so I shall probably err on the side of comfort and wear lighter-weight black pants, a colorful, but cotton, shirt, and a cardigan that will dress up the outfit and also act as a removable layer. I'm all about the layers.

Speaking of layers, my favorite part of receiving presents is often the wrapping. Oh, not in the way a small child or animal is totally entranced by an empty box, but in the sense of wonder that comes from the way a few layers of tissue and tape, ribbon and bows, can make an ordinary box seem magical and amazing, and make the giver seem so, as well. (My favorite part of presents in general, however, is actually giving them to others.)

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Still sick, I spent most of the day cuddled in bed with dogs and movies and stuff to read, sipping coffee every now and then, and at one point deciding that mince pie is medicinal. No, really, it is.
There's a part of me that is dreading work tomorrow, but the bigger part of my brain is glad of the distraction – I won't miss having family here if I keep busy, after all.

I had hoped to spend the weekend doing some writing, but am just so tired, and haven't been able to breathe – even at the movies yesterday I felt really blechy – I didn't even want Starbucks today, and was content with my home-brewed pot of that lovely deep brown elixir.

It was still 70 degrees outside at eight, and the leaves skittering across the patio in the balmy but blustery wind sound like rattlesnakes about to strike, and this leaves the dogs feeling unsettled. No surprise then, that after an entire afternoon of being curled up against me in the bed, they're content to spend the night in much the same way.

Some of the neighbors already have their Christmas lights down. It is the 26th, and the holiday season is waning, but their houses are shockingly bare, it seems, and cold despite the unseasonably warm, dry temperatures.

I like the word 'waning' – it reminds me of the ebb and flow (primarily the ebb) of tides, and seems such a vivid term for a concept not dissimilar to fading. The fading of the season, the gradual lengthening of days that has already started. Time waxes and wanes and we live within the ticking of clocks and the beeping of alarms, and never stop to notice things like the red berries on the bushes, until the lack of holiday lights makes them stand out.

Yes. This is the cold medicine talking.
And yet…it's also not.

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