I feel sorry for December. It’s always hurried along and full of the business of getting the year finished off roundly on top of getting prepared for Christmas and holidays and having to put on bathers. Its days are overhung by that forgotten something feeling.
The younger members of the population just don’t want a bar of most of December – “How many sleeps ’til Christmas? When’s school finishing? Do we have to do homework this week, can’t we pretend it’s holidays already?” They even have little calendars with chocolates in them to celebrate the passing of December days. (I object to these by the way, we used to have advent calendars with pictures instead of chocolate, and we still loved the surprise of each tiny scene. It’s another example of how children are becoming increasingly overindulged and entitled. And clearly also another example of how I am a grumpy old humbug and “Not like other mothers” i.e. boring, stubborn, old, pushy with greens and too hung up on grammar).
Grown up people are experiencing a similar sense of hurry-up-December. Teachers, for instance. And parents who long for the end of the running about and packing of lunches and homework help and pestering about fucking shoes (if I were given a dollar for every time I’ve said “shoes” since my children hit school age, I’d be able to employ a full time shoe monitor). And non-parents who just want a goddamn break after a full year of work or study or looking for work.
And the people for whom the year has been a bit shit and now just want it gone. They’d wish December away entirely if they could. They’ve made it this far, the rest of the year can just piss off and hand over lovely fresh, resolute January.
And the ones for whom December, with it’s hyper-jollity and social paroxysms and emphasis on love-thy-family, is a total up-yours-rude-finger to their solitary, estranged or grief-riddled lives. They hate December more than anyone.
And then there are the Christmas Grinches who just hate how jolly, tinselly, commercial, cheeseball carolly December gets. Not to mention expensive. (This is me most of the time. I like the carols but the rest of Christmas can kissm’ass).
November, on the other hand (windy as it is here in Tassie), gets a whole lot of love. It is full of happy birthdays and motivation to get things done and ‘thank goodness it’s not December’ thoughts. Panic hasn’t set in; there’s still time to smell the roses and watch the late Spring days get longer.
It all seems a bit unfair really. The year is mostly cheated of it’s twelfth month.
So I wrote December a little poem (there seem to be quite a few lame poems from me lately, not sure why – no free space for brain expansion perhaps).
Poor old December,
She can’t remember,
Who she was before tinsel and fluff,
She would be fine,
If we had time
To find her amidst all the guff.
She’d be quite lovely
Without all the ugly
“I wants” and “Give me’s” and shit,
We wish her away,
But I’d like her to stay,
And let the year slow down a bit.
Smell roses, sing songs and just sit.