The Day After

What is it about the day after a holiday? On Christmas morning, I was sipping coffee from a mug emblazoned with an old-fashioned Santa. Hank had Christmas Carols going from the Sonos speakers sprinkled throughout the house. In the living room, the lights on the tree sparkled. The ornaments glistened.

The next morning, the whole thing looked and felt like yesterday’s mashed potatoes. With the lights on the tree turned off, the ornaments lacked the luster.  There was a wad of gift-wrapping in the corner by the bookcase, red ribbon dangled from the armrest of a chair, and crumpled holly-framed cocktail napkins were scattered on the center coffee table.  Below, on the area rug, a trail of fluffy white stuffing from Tucker’s new doggie toy, led to its now-deflated orange casing.

Overnight, my view of our living room had transformed from “festive” into a gift store with too much Christmas merchandise. All I needed were the tags. Ugh, the magnolia garland on the mantle. It was all I could do not to sweep my arm across the whole damn thing and watch it gleefully fall to the floor.

It was the day after and the candles had flickered and dimmed. They always do.

Think about Halloween, those wilted, waxy carved pumpkins the morning after the trick-or-treaters.  Or worse, the day after Valentine’s, those sale bins at the store filled with heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, candied hearts, and leftover greeting cards…Valentines 50% off! In retail, the expression of love the day after is so OVER.

It took two days to get time to start with what I call “the take-down.” Out came the ladder, the boxes from the garage, and a fresh stack of cheap tissue to pack up all the Christmas.  After the job was done, I told Hank I felt lighter, as if the weight of the holiday was behind me. All stacked up neatly in boxes in the garage.

Backing my car out of the garage later, I eyed the boxes. Nope. I don’t have to deal with those boxes for three hundred and thirty some odd days. Or, maybe, I thought…

Out for dinner on the 30^th, I told Hank that I’d decided to be ready for Christmas early next year.  Get ahead of the fray. “Instead of becoming a frazzled mess in December, I’ll be one of those – you know, those:  ‘I-finished-my-shopping-in-August-and-it’s-all-wrapped’ people. I’ll just float through the holidays like they must. And when it’s over, I won’t be in such a rush to take it all down.”

Hank looked skeptical. “Really?”

“Yeah, and I won’t pine for the day after and that euphoria I feel when it’s all over. Who knows, I might even enjoy the holidays!”

I took a sip of wine. “You think October’s too early to put up the tree?”

Hank gave a nervous laugh. He’s used to my whims. “At least hold off until the Thanksgiving dishes are done,” he smiled.

“Deal.”

I picked up my fork to take a bite. “Next up is New Year’s Eve. The forced gaiety and all that, but somehow I don’t dread it.”

Hank looked up from his plate, the candle on our table reflecting in his glasses. “That’s because New Year’s Eve is an ending.”

“And the day after,” I replied, “is a beginning.”