Truth be told, if he had let me I would have wimped out anyway.
But that pretty much sums up my feelings about the holiday season. I enjoy the decorating, and the planning, the gift wrapping and excitement, planning lovely family activities.
But then . . . the reality.
I'm shopping for 147 people, and wrapping presents all alone at 1 am. Making stupid dinner rolls that people keep asking me to make, even though I am so totally over it that I forget them in the oven and they burn. Every time. Standing in line at some crappy store with a cart full of crappy gifts and sweating because I'm dressed for the freezing cold blizzard outside and its approximately 205 degrees in the store. Looking at the bank account, and credit card statements. Realizing that we're out of toilet paper and we might have to wait until payday if I can't find a few more dollars in the budget. Or in the bottom of my purse, whatever.
But the last straw? The straw that cooked the Christmas Goose?
My husband. Happy as can be. Not a care in the world. Only one person to buy gifts for (me). No cooking or cleaning to worry about. Thoroughly enjoying the holidays. Which is good, I suppose. Still makes me want to punch him in the neck though.
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