After all the running around, the sweat (and I was sweating, huffing and puffing from place to place in the midst of extreme overcrowding), and I’m surprised no tears (although I probably should have wept a few times because I was so exhausted and cranky), the holidays came and went. I don’t get it. It’s like we’re whipped into a frenzy, we get sucked into the hype, and then, it’s over. The holidays were so much better when I was five.
Decades after my fifth year of life, it’s just not the same. “The holidays are for the kids,” I’ve been told. I believe it. There’s no element of surprise. There’s no magic in the air. There’s no excitement of what you think or hope will be. I don’t even think the smells are the same.
When you’re a grown up you seemingly inhale an overwhelming amount of food at this time of year (if you’re a kid, eating is not a priority because you’re so wired, you have no interest in finishing a meal), you’re going through glasses and glasses of rum punch, spiked egg nog and endless bottles of wine (good times), not to mention the colorful conversation (after all the alcohol, the conversation definitely is colorful), but that’s all you have — that, and an expanding waistline with a serious helping of nausea. Unpleasant on so many levels.
So, if you could be five years old again for only one holiday season, would you do it? I would.