A set came to me quickly – I turned, paddled, wishing for more confidence, hoping commitment would make up for the lack. The wave caught me, but in my haste to make the drop, I stood too quickly. My board teetered at the top of the lip, then slipped back as the wave went on without me. My failure resonated through me as I paddled back, avoiding eye contact. Another try found me on a left, nothing special to watch, just confirmation that I could do this after all. I continued catching lefts while rights eluded me, offshore wind picking up strength as the session wore on. I couldn’t fight it, couldn’t get my board down the wave’s face before being gusted off, like a shoo’ed fly, until the end, when I waited till the wave was nearly tipping over me, then flung myself into it, preferring wiping out to missing out. But neither happened. Instead, I found myself flying along, board underfoot, shoulder lifting, a lovely bow on this present of a day.

—————

The secrets exhausted her. She wondered what it might be like to shed them. To divest herself of the burden of hiding, downplaying, avoiding and otherwise substituting illusion for truth. The secret-keeping started with money. She would spend, he would scold. So she stopped sharing her excitement over a new dress. Or said she’d found it at a thrift store, such a deal.

He didn’t want to travel and she did, so she credited the trips as work-related or told him a friend was paying for her to come visit. She had a lot of friends, so it wasn’t a stretch. Her friend Janey, for example, in New York. Janey wanted her to visit. That was true. She offered to help cover the cost, so that was true, too. But the flight had gone on a credit card, hers not Janey’s, which was the opposite of what she’d explained to her husband. The lying frightened her, but the idea of a life of boredom scared her even more.

The trouble was, just like the stories warned, that once she’d committed to untruths, she had no standard to uphold. Which is why, in the name of adventure, she’d gone on a motorcycle ride with one of Janey’s friends, way upstate, to a family farm, where no family remained. He showed her the grounds, including the barn, where a few groomsmen took care of a few horses, all of whom exited a few moments after their arrival. The heat had likely been obvious, she thought, but she didn’t care, she was so far from home, so far from discovery and at that point a literal roll in the hay amused her more than worried her.

It wasn’t till the flight home that guilt landed. And stayed. She carried it with her and grew used to the weight. They would fight sometimes. He’d accuse her of lying. I don’t know what you do or where our money goes, he said. I tell you where I go, stop being so obsessive, she countered. And all I do is pay bills and buy groceries. If you ever paid attention to the mail, to the checking account, you’d know. She banked on him not ever doing those things, but the accusations worked. He may have been suspicious, he may have been right, but he had no way of proving it. And so she kept lying.

She didn’t want to hurt him. He was right after all. She was worthless, a terrible wife, a bad person. She defended herself because she had to, but still. She didn’t want to hurt him. To speak truth would be to say, she was bored. She was disappointed. That she hated how she fell to her weaknesses instead of rising to her strengths. I want to be a better person, she confided to her best girlfriends, but I’m so busy fighting his perception of me, I can’t let my guard down. If I confess my flaws, he’ll hold them over me forever.

It’s better to keep up a strong front, she decided. I can tuck all my sorrow away. People have real problems, after all. I am not homeless or dying or married to someone who hits me. Therefore, I should stay quiet, wait it out. What she was waiting out, she could not say. Not because she couldn’t say, but because she wasn’t sure. The shopping, the trips, the lingering glances with a hand lightly placed just so on a handsome man’s arm, those were just ways to ease the journey, nevermind the load such deception placed upon her heart.

If it, her heart, gave out before the end, so much the better, she thought. One way or another, she’d find, if not truth, if not the fabled lightness of being, at least some kind of peace.

Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand by Helen Simonson (Book Club): Fun! Light, but clever and charming in that Brit lit way.

The Wave by Susan Casey: I went into this book without knowing much about Casey other than she’d written The Devil’s Teeth – and I’m glad, because I read the book without the scandal baggage that descended upon me after I’d finished the book and mentioned liking it to people. That said, I liked the book! I learned a lot about waves! Science plus storytelling! Yay! But the glorification of tow-in surfers and the nonstop worship of Laird Hamilton did get to be a little much.

Bleak House by Charles Dickens: The first half of the book, I alternated between feeling like I was slogging and feeling like I needed to rise to the occasion. The second half of the book, the characters had become my friends, as had the language. Highly entertaining satire with heart. Dickens!

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender: OK, so this author wrote one of my very favorite short stories of all time, I loved the book going in and hated it by the time I finished. I don’t know what to think.

Wicked Lovely, Ink Exchange, Fragile Eternity, Radiant Shadows and Darkest Mercy by Melissa Marr: Enthralling young adult lit!

Skinny Dip by Carl Hiaasen: Defendable escapism.

Night of the Gun by David Carr: Who needs another addiction memoir? That’s what Carr asks – and he makes sure his isn’t just “another” by taking a journalistic approach (he’s currently at the New York Times) and being a hell of a writer.

The Death and Life of American Journalism: The Media Revolution that Will Begin the World Again by Robert W. McChesney and John Nichols: A little dense, like your reader, but a good study in what’s so messed up about modern media.

Checker and the Derailleurs by Lionel Shriver (for the millionth time): Oh, god, I love this book.

Too Much Happiness by Alice Munro: Smart, precise short stories.

I Just Want My Pants Back by David J. Rosen: Cheesy entertainment. I read it all the way through and felt sort of bad about it. The book equivalent of eating a donut.

History of Love by Nicole Krauss: This book! This book! Lives intertwine, stories unfold, hearts break and mend again, all with an elegance that made me fall in love with love. And this book.

Griftopia: Bubble Machines, Vampire Squids and the Long Con That Is Breaking America by Matt Taibbi: Taibbi kicks ass. If you don’t read him, you’re missing out.

The Death and Resurrection Show by Ariel Gore (again): An unusual story, nicely told, enjoyable at the surface level and full of meaning beyond. Perfect when you want something easy to get lost in, but well worth the time.

All Other Nights by Dara Horn: This book is dumb. I’m annoyed that people have success writing such dumb books.

So Much for That by Lionel Shriver: This book is smart. Shriver is one of my very favorite authors because she writes so well it’s as if I’m living with her characters while reading. Slightly less misanthropic than most of her previous books. She also eviscerates the American medical/insurance system.

Anywhere But Here by Mona Simpson: Sweet, funny, sad, well-done story of a dysfunctional mother and her daughter.

1Q84 by Haruki Murakami: Brilliant – literature as high art, yet accessible enough to enjoy for the story alone. Worth all the hype.

—

My thighs stuck to the vinyl of the chair. I imagined the rashy effect. Why had I worn a skirt this short without tights? I glanced at the woman sitting to my left. She was probably 10 years older, wearing a longer, straighter skirt with a matching jacket. Her haircut suggested it wasn’t one she’d done herself. I touched the back of my neck. The short hairs stuck out, pleasing to the touch – my friends had laughed and run their hands over the fuzzy band. I hadn’t meant to go so short, but with each correction, well, this is where I ended up. The other woman’s wavy locks flowed over her shoulders. Sexy. Professional, but sexy. I shifted my now-sweaty thighs – it must be eighty degrees in here – and sagged against the backrest. No way was I getting this job.

Oh, to be young and cool, I thought, stealing a look at the woman to my right. She could still pull off a short skirt and even shorter hair. My legs held up scrutiny as long as I wore tights, but bare-legged? Forget it. I wish, especially in this heat. But two kids and sixteen years of waitressing jobs left a history of varicose veins and stretch marks from waist to ankle. I never let my husband make love to me with the lights on anymore. This woman probably had a boyfriend and a girlfriend. They probably cavorted naked on the beach, carefree. I could never cut my hair off like that. Only the most confident women could. And if she was that confident… I didn’t stand a chance of getting this job.

I tried to imagine that level of sophistication. As I filled out the application – why do they ask you to fill out an application when they’ve already asked for your resume? And why do they include high school in your education? Like I need to tell them I tested out my junior year because I was bored with school and enthralled with my pot dealer boyfriend. Are they going to call my high school? Ask about me? My English teacher would tell them, despair coloring his voice, “Oh! Cherie? She had so much potential! So much wasted possibility.” Well, that is if he remembered me. It’s been five years, after all. I’m sure he’s had other wasted possibilities move through his classroom. I did love reading Catcher in the Rye. But I don’t miss anyone.

I need this job. I didn’t really consider, back when the kids were babies, what it would mean to re-enter the job market. The job market. Like I’m at the store, choosing a career off the shelf. I wish it were so easy. I’m an expert at finding supermarket deals – and fast. With two kids in the cart, you don’t have time to mess around. Can I put that on the application? Good at avoiding conflict through efficient time management? I’m so old. At 36, I’m so old. I can’t believe they ask for high school history on this application. How ridiculous. As if who I was as a teenager has any bearing on who I am as a woman not far from shifting into her 40s. High school mattered because that’s where I met Dan, Dan the Man. Dan the Man who would get me pregnant at 19. It’s kind of crazy we’re still married. I’m glad that worked out. The only other thing I remember from high school is English class. Mr. Lewis. Reading Catcher in the Rye. As a kid, my focus was on Holden. As a mom, all I can think about is the children he had to catch.

“Janie?” the reception called out. “That’s me!” I enthused. Too loudly. As I stood, the stupid vinyl chair refused to release my thighs at first, so I ended up standing to a lovely sucking sound. Way to make a good impression. I’m sure they were both red across the back. Gawd. It was like being in sixth grade and having to go in front of the class to explain diagramming sentences. I don’t know why no one else got it. But I tugged my skirt down and smoothed my hair, channeled my idea of classy. The receptionist gestured to the door across the hall. Deep breath. I strode over and opened it.

God, to move with such confidence. I watched Janie, cute name, go in. I should flee. I’m too old. Too prim. I had no idea what to wear so I went to the mall, to the department store, bought this suit ensemble. I feel like I’m sixty. I think about waitressing, how I slung hash browns and T-bone steaks at the hippest diner in town – crazy how that job offered a sense of cool, but this attempt at a “real job” reminded me just how awkward I was. I love my daughters, but dishes and dusting and laundry weren’t doing me any favors when it came to creating a resume. Now they were both in elementary school. Dan’s construction job paid the bills, but not much more. This job meant health insurance. A crazy concept. And one we needed.

The interview flew by. Generic questions asked by this guy, this manager guy, wearing beige with sandy brown hair and light brown eyes and the kind of facial hair that guys who can’t actually grow a beard seem to cultivate. I tried to impress his face upon my memory, but was pretty sure I wouldn’t recognize him in the line at Starbucks. Yes, I’m responsible, I said. Yes, I pay attention to details.

The door opened. Janie, all unblemished legs and sassy hair, skimmed past, flashed me a smile. The manager probably just went gaga over her and was now going through the motions of finishing the interviews. Fuck. I would never get this job. “Amy?” the receptionist called out. That’s me. I stood, brushed the wrinkles off the front of my skirt. I shrugged my shoulders back. I needed this. My family needed this. I walked in the door, bright smile and hand out for a confident shake. It’s all about the webbing between thumb and forefinger. I’d read that in Cosmo of all place, but it was true. You shake hands, not fingers. Yes, I’m responsible, I said. Yes, I pay attention to details.

Shit! I’d left the lights on. My battery was dead. I kept meaning to get jumper cables, but that meant stopping at the auto parts store, which may as well have been China for all the familiarity it inspired. I suppose always depending on the kindness – or opportunism – of men was not a good long-term plan. Or even a short-term one, given the fact I was stuck in this parking lot.

“Do you need help?” I asked her. “Do you have jumper cables?” she responded. “Sure,” I said, unlocking the minivan. “I keep them with me ever since I owned a VW bug – that thing used to die all the time.” I smiled at her, hoping she wasn’t too embarrassed. She looked embarrassed, red flushing across her unwrinkled, unblemished face. Janie laughed. “I had a Volkswagen once,” she said. “Man, that thing used to break down all the time! That’s why I finally switched to Honda when I could.” I smiled, clipped the red clamp onto her battery and the black where it would ground. “Hey, I’m happy to help.” She grinned at me. “Thank you. Those are great earrings, by the way.” I reached up, touched the dangling glass. “Thanks! My husband gave them to me last anniversary. I really like your hair. I wish I could wear it so short.” Janie’s grin grew as she moved to her car. I climbed into my  own driver’s seat, turned the key, started the van up. Across the divide, she did the same. Her engine sputtered, sputtered again, kicked over, then purred. “Yay!” I shouted. She clapped. For a moment, we shared the same energy, the same spark. I stepped out of the van, already saddened by having to disconnect.

I needed to check Nick, so I tiptoed up the stairs, stabbed his finger, let the test strip absorb the blood, exhaled when the number flashed. No need to dash back down for glucose tablets and food. No cause to correct and stay awake for follow-ups. I only realized the tightness around my heart when relief eased it.

But I stay awake anyway. My head hurts. Stress, I thought. It was an imperfect evening. The glass of red wine, maybe. I remembered I’d forgotten to eat dinner – a side effect of running from meeting to meeting in the evening. I’d neglected breakfast, too, racing off to do radio at 5:30 a.m. Wow, that was fun. Not the failure to eat, but the playing music and gabbing at people via the airwaves. (I did eat lunch. A fine slice of pizza at the new Paul’s Live From New York in Eureka.)

So I’m up, wishing someone had bothered to build a fire. A chill pervades the house. I’ve pulled the hood of my hoodie up over my head. My hands can hardly type for shivering. The cold yogurt I ate didn’t help. I think I’ll grab a blanket and put the kettle on for early morning tea. Be right back.

All right, I added a long-sleeved T-shirt between the short-sleeved one I was sleeping in and the aforementioned hoodie. (Side note: Strange to think a time existed when I slept naked. At some point, with the kids, pajamas became the norm. Maybe when they’re off in the world, I’ll return to a more au natural state.) The kettle creaks on top of the flame – I’ll have to catch it before it whistles, so as not to wake the rest of the house. The inside thermometer reads 60 degrees, which would be great if I were on the beach in the sun without any wind blowing, but is so much colder inside the house, in the dark, at 4 a.m.

Somewhere, not far from here, I’m sure, people are likely huddled outside, trying to stave off the elements without a house or a hoodie or any of the other material goods I’m fortunate enough to possess. I am cold, but not unlucky.

I haven’t figured out the new year yet. The big news is my oldest daughter moved to Southern California. That will need to be a whole post in itself. I didn’t make any formal resolutions – the aspects of myself in need of fixing continue to be. The desire to improve remains strong. I understand, intellectually, the courses of action necessary to achieve the desired results. The physical doing of those actions, however, well, therein lies the flaw. Sometimes excuses are true – I have a lot going on – and sometimes they’re just rationalizations. I’m not that bad, I’m mostly successful! I think. Even if I don’t attain perfection, at least I’m not a complete loser.

Not a very good motivational speech.

Feeling self-conscious about the self-indulgent self analysis. Maybe I need to spend more time focusing on others? Hmmm. At risk of sounding defensive (to whom, Jennifer?), I don’t think that’s it. Yes, here on my blog, I spew all about me, but in daily life, I take care of my family’s needs (imperfectly) and strive to do good. Some Puritan work ethic appears to run through the maternal side of my family – I can’t conceive of what it would be like to feel as if I work “enough.” All I can ever see is the room for improvement. I spend a lot of time in that room. I should probably get out more.

2012. I’m not sure about it yet. 2010 was brilliant – an amazing new job, international travel, a whole year of blossoming. 2011, full of sociability and good times and rewarding moments as it was, did not measure up. Is that a terrible thing to say? I worry I will hurt people’s feelings. It wasn’t you, it was me – a certain melancholy took hold and wouldn’t let me out of its grip no matter how much time I spent among people I love. Much (not all!) of 2011 was treading water, just sort of hanging in there, trying to maintain high standards, but unsure what I was measuring against. I want 2012 to be a year of stepping up. Not necessarily doing more, but doing better. Growing. Traveling. Taking what was good about 2011 (many things!) to new heights and leaving the lesser moments behind. And all kinds of vague, non-specific, generic sentiment like that.

What do I want specifically? To end the year with some savings. To go to Mexico. To help Kaylee move into the adult phase of her life. To make sure Nick’s health remains strong. To encourage Chelsea’s success in her ongoing life story. To push Bobby into finding satisfaction through art. To see the Marine Life Protection Act implemented on the North Coast and to have a next project to work on – to keep feeling like the efforts I put toward bettering the world matter. To surf and surf and surf. To read more. To lose the clichéd 15 lbs. because why not? To more regularly connect with the friends and family I don’t see enough whether in person or through writing to them more often and better. No more saying,”Miss you so much! Let’s talk soon!” and not following up. To keep writing. Maybe someday I’ll get good at it.

“I resolve to get at least three tattoos.”

“I resolve to refrain from waxing my eyebrows for at least three months.”

Those were stupid, Stacia decided. Superficial. Lame.

“I resolve to volunteer at the soup kitchen.”

That was better.

“I resolve to foster a special needs animal from the shelter.”

She was on a roll.

“I resolve to spend time at an old folks’ home.”

Ack. The wincing that one triggered convinced her that Saturdays at Silver Ridge was the way to go. After all, if it didn’t hurt, why do it?

Saturday dawned crystal clear, sun rising golden above purple mountains. “Above the fruited plain,” Stacia sung as she swung her truck into the Silver Ridge parking lot. “Amerrrricaaaa… Amerrrricaaaa….” She hoped they didn’t expect her to sing. As much as she enjoyed belting along with the radio or when inspired by a particular view, even the hard-of-hearing might wince at her tuneless efforts.

“Hello!” she called out, leaning against the reception desk. “Hello!”

A rustling sounded down the hall. Stacia glanced around at the empty lobby, all carefully stacked magazines and blue vinyl chairs arranged to have a view of the large screen TV dominating one side of the room. The other side featured windows and a sliding door leading into a bench-lined atrium where birds of paradise bloomed.

“Hello?” She hollered again. The rustling stopped, was replaced by the sound of striding steps moving toward her. A woman emerged, clipboard clenched to her chest. The look of annoyance crossing her face reminded Stacia of her mom.

“Hi!” Stacia said. “I’m here to volunteer.” She smiled her brightest smile at the… nurse? Receptionist? Stacia couldn’t tell.

The woman tilted her head, looking at Stacia over thick blue-framed glasses. “It’s 6:30 in the morning.”

“I know,” Stacia replied. “But… um… don’t old… I mean, senior… people get up early?”

“Yes,” said the woman. “Yes, they do. But we don’t take visitors until 9.”

“I’m not a visitor!” said Stacia. “I’m a volunteer!”

A sign emanated from the woman as she lowered her clipboard and dropped it on the desk. “You should come back later.”

“But I’m here now!” protested Stacia. “And I really want to help!”

Another sigh. The woman opened a drawer, pulled out some papers. “Fine,” she said. “Sit. Fill these out. Leave them on the desk and someone will call you.” She handed the sheets to Stacia, picked up her clipboard and disappeared down the hallway.

Stacia carried the forms to the couch. She sat down. She glanced over the paperwork. Lots of basic who-are-you information, a section on interests, another on experience. Boring! Stacia shoved the sheaf into her purse and traipsed down the hall. Miss Grumpypants was muttering over a computer in a side room and didn’t even notice Stacia slipping by.

The hall led to an open area where recliners and ottomans dominated the floorspace. Off to the right, a glassed-in room allowed Stacia her first look at the early morning risers of Silver Ridge. A yoga class. Perfect.

She stepped out of her shoes, grateful she’d worn her old Dansko clogs. Her tall zip boots had been her first choice, but she’d reconsidered, not wanting to show up looking too stylish in case the old… she meant senior… people envied her youth.

The instructor turned toward her as she stepped into the room. “Namaste!” Stacia called out, striking the pose of hands pressed together as she intimated a slight bow. She took a spot on the floor.

The four other faces twisted to look. “Hello?” said the instructor. “And you are…?”

“Stacia,” she answered. “New volunteer. So happy to be here!”

An expression of doubt flickered across the yoga teacher’s face, but was quickly replaced by resignation. “Wonderful,” she said. “Welcome.”

They moved through sun salutations, warrior pose and downward dog. Stacia snuck a glance around her as the blood flowed into her head. Three women, one man. He’s probably hoping to get lucky, she thought, giggling to herself. The yoga teacher looked at her. Stacia stifled her laughter, tensed her abdominal muscles.

“Very good, very good,” the instructor praised as the group stood in unison. “Last time I held that pose that long, I was in a shower and it was my honeymoon,” the woman to Stacia’s right quipped. The man and one other woman laughed. The instructor and the other woman pursed their lips. Stacia smiled at the saucy senior, gave her a thumbs up. This is the lady she should hang out with, Stacia thought.

After the class ended, she helped pass out towels and cups of water. “Hi, I’m Stacia,” she said, introducing herself to each resident. The woman who’d cracked a joke crooked her arm through Stacia’s. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, patting Stacia with her free hand. “We need some new blood in these parts.”

Stacia stretched her face into its biggest smile. The woman had been funny, sure, and Stacia wanted to be her volunteer friend, but the sensation of loose skin over bony arm pressing into her own firm, pliant body triggered a desire to pull away. She forced herself to hold steady. “Oh, good!” Stacia enthused. “I’m so happy to be here. What’s your name?” Her face remained bright.

The old… she meant senior… woman pulled her closer. “Lucy,” she said. “I’m Lucy. And look, honey, you have to help me. Promise you’ll help me?”

Incalculable wrinkles surrounded the sky-blue eyes gazing into Stacia’s own. “Of course,” she said, now patting Lucy’s arm, loose flesh and all. “Of course.”

…in 2000 starting in June, I surfed 68 times.

Then, a steady decline:

2004=134
2005=102
2006=79
2007=70

Adding the years since then:

2008: 59
2009: 67
2010: 64
2011: 73

(*2001 and 2002 surf calendars are missing!)

My default goal is always to surf 183 days out of the year — one more than half. If I can break 100 this year, I’ll know I spent my time more wisely than in years previous. Few things make me happier than surfing. Some aspects of my life — family and work — matter more, but at the end of the year, I hope I can say I spent less time Facebooking and folding laundry and more time immersed in the brisk, salty, beautiful experience of surfing Humboldt County.

If New Year’s Day is any example of things to come, 2012 is filled with promise. The morning dawned clear, black giving way to indigo fading to pale green to yellow to a sky so ridiculously blue you’d think we lived somewhere without near-constant fog and 40 inches of rain. The wind refrained from disturbing the ocean, the bay, the rivers for much of the day, the glassy result all the better to mirror the herons and egrets dotting the waters, the Vs of geese flying overhead. It was the kind of day where nature pours her heart out to you and, unless you’re without one, the happiness in your own heart magnifies in return. If you forgot to look away from your computer screen, you missed out.

The buoys read from 5 at 11 to 6 at 13, numbers than can represent head-high fun or macking sets, depending on location, tide and the usual set of conditions. One usual condition was the crowd at Camel Rock. I looked at it via the cam, thought about it, looked again, thought more, decided I’d rather face more challenging waves with fewer people.

A typical scene at Camel. Pretty. Crowded.

I made the right call. (A look at the buoy numbers later showed the swell dropped while I was out, so I really made the right call!) Sunny, glassy, not too crowded, nice crew, overhead user-friendly waves. I stayed in the water till my feet turned numb. Best wave arrived as a left, one that a very talented superlocal graciously handed off to me. Holiday celebrations have left me feeling thick and clumsy, but nonetheless, I landed on my feet and spent several seconds blissed out as the wave folded behind me, rose in front of me, the world a momentarily perfect place.

So pretty.

#72: One of those places you go when it’s huge everywhere else. One of those days where I point out every five minutes, “It’s so beautiful!” One of those sessions where the waves crank out as if someone dropped a quarter into a wave-generating machine. They weren’t very big — they were the opposite of big, coming in waist-high, but zippy and peeling, and best of all, the only people in the water were me, my son, four good friends and a couple locals. One of those days where I point out every five minutes, “This is so fun!”

And after, Mexican food. Yes, a fine, fine day.

#73: The year could’ve ended on a better note. I’ve worked on coming to terms with the overcrowding at Camel with some success — mostly due to owning a big, cruisy board and a new willingness to sit more competitively. But sometimes, the constant dodging of other surfers while riding waves — “threading the needle,” as a friend calls it — detracts from the usual bliss of being in this moment on this wave. Typically, being on a wave brings me right into that moment; all else falls away as the world narrows to me, my board, the ocean. Skirting other people’s heads and boards adds a heightened sense of awareness in a way, but not in a way I’m looking for. I didn’t stay out long — and for all my crowd-crankiness, I ended up in the right place at the right time. Another sunny day about to end in a spectacular sunset, water glittering, a mid-sized wave peaking up between sets, too early for the folks hanging right on the rock, it delivered itself to me — thank you, ocean! — and then, there I was, carried along the peeling face for forever (about 20 seconds in surf-time). So, a pretty sweet wrap-up to the year after all.

And then I kinda figured it out.

1. Gifts, giving: First, opting out of gift-giving is an imperfect solution, because you’re cheating yourself, too. Now, make a list of all the people you’re “supposed” to buy presents. Cross off anyone you’d have to ship something to unless you really, really love them. Cross off anyone you don’t really, really love. Cross off the people who are impossible to shop for even if you really, really love them. (They’ve brought it on themselves.) If necessary, tell these people, “I hope you have a wonderful Christmas. Quick heads up that we’re not doing gifts this year. Looking forward to seeing you in the New Year!” Etc. Be cheery. Don’t explain. The reason for doing this is twofold: they’ll know not to expect anything and also they’ll be off the hook when it comes to buying a gift for you. If they buy you something anyway, accept it with a “thank you” and no guilt.

Now, go find the people who remain presents that will delight them. Giving gifts is so much fun when you’re excited because you’re giving something great to someone you love who will appreciate it. If you can’t or don’t want to buy stuff, be creative in all those ways that seem corny, but can really make for a good time: Write a lovely letter, invite someone to go on a Christmas hike, put together a collection of recipes, figure out what you’re good at and make that your gift. Maybe you’re great at playing music. Go on a holiday mini-tour with some cookies and your guitar. Whatever. To emphasize: Bringing joy into other people’s lives is way fucking fun. 

2. Gifts, receiving: If someone gives you a gift you like, say, “Thank you!” If someone gives you a gift you don’t like, unless it’s really offensive, which I’ll get to in a moment, say, “Thank you!” You can always donate or regift it later. Mostly, just say, “Thank you!” If you like the gift, you’re sincere in your appreciation for the item. If you don’t like it, try to channel appreciation for the attempt, for that person’s own struggles in life, whatever it takes to let a little grace into your heart.

If the person or the gift offends you terribly (one year I opened a package to discover Dr. Laura’s book about stupid things women do), quickly ask yourself, “Is instigating conflict worth it?” The answer in these situations is most always, “No.” Commiserate with your friends instead — “Can you believe that shit?” — preferably post-holiday over many of the drinks of your choice. If the person involved is related to you or your spouse, but isn’t so awful that you’ve already cut ties — more on this under “Family,” below — you don’t get to do it now. Sorry. Life sometimes involves moments less than pleasant. Accept this, do your best to minimize them, move on.

Now, maybe you have well-intentioned people who want to give gifts, but just aren’t very good at giving you the right ones. Maybe you think to yourself, “If they really cared about me, they’d know better than to give me this ugly shirt/horrible cologne/gift card to Applebee’s/etc.” Well, perhaps you ought to consider the possibility you’re indulging in a judgmental, self-centered, smug reaction to someone’s sincere efforts. Instead of whining about their selections to your long-suffering spouse, plan ahead. Tell them (or have your partner, sibling, whomever) tell them what you’d need or like. A cocktail shaker. A contribution to your travel fund. A month of car insurance. This exact sweater available at this store in this size and this color. When you get it, say, “Thank you!”

3. Decorating. Do it if you want, don’t if you don’t. If your life partner wants you to, do it. Because part of being in a successful relationship means understanding you don’t always get your way. And that’s okay.

4. Social obligations. Social capital is a good thing, especially if you’re not tight with your family. Do attend what you can. Be gracious. Use this opportunity to practice being your best self, whatever that means to you. If you can’t be gracious, sign up to volunteer at a soup kitchen or homeless shelter, because clearly you need a perspective shift.

5. Family. Here are the situations in which you can refuse to spend time with family: They live far away; Someone has done something heinous to you; They have a history of imposing their political, religious or cultural beliefs on you in a way that is so deeply offensive, the circumstances transcend “agreeing to disagree”; They’re awful to your spouse or children; They’re much richer than you and have no tact about that fact. Otherwise, learn to talk about noncontroversial matters, focus on the fact that these are people who, silly as they might be, care about and are connected to you — that may not seem like a blessing now, but someday, it might be.

If none of the above helps, let me leave you with this: Lighten the fuck up. If nothing else, Christmas and New Year’s provide an excuse for nearly two weeks of increased partying, decreased work expectations and other people feeling more generous to your narrow-hearted, cynical, wounded self.

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Sherry knocked back the last of her vodka soda, exhaled, pulled the tea towel from the stove rack and tossed it on the spreading puddle. She then reached under the sink, pushed aside the pile of grocery bags and dug around among the various cleaning supplies until she found the spray bottle of lemongrass cleaner. The plastic bottle announced, in bright orange letters, “ORGANIC! NONTOXIC!” Sherry eyed the mess, set the cleaner on the counter, tilted the bottle of vodka over her glass and watched the clear liquid rise over the ice. This time, she skipped the soda.

“All right, then,” she announced to no one except the dog, her dear old black lab huddling in the corner. “It’s OK, honey,” Sherry crooned. “It’s not your fault.” Mackie lifted her head, eyes cloudy, face sweet. Sherry sipped her vodka. Set it down. Dropped to her knees. With her left hand, she wiped up the puddle. With her right, she sprayed the spot down with the lemongrass cleaner. Standing again, she strode to the laundry room, threw the towel into the empty washer, grabbed a rag from the rag pile.

Back in the kitchen, Sherry sipped her vodka. Sipped it some more. Refilled it, figuring why let it run out when she’d be making another drink anyway. She tossed the rag on the floor, used her foot to move it over the spot, spreading and absorbing the cleaner. The scent of lemongrass reached her.

Lemongrass, she remembered from her herbal classes, is native to India and tropical Asia. In addition to its culinary properties – wonderful in soup – herbalists believe it has antifungal properties. Not that Sherry worried about fungus. But she didn’t want the floor to smell like dog piss. She didn’t want her house to smell like dog piss. Finding a worthy man to have over proved challenge enough. Bringing one through the door only to have him wrinkle his nose at the smell of dog piss was not something she wanted to deal with. “Sorry, honey,” she told Mackie.

It wasn’t fair, Sherry mused. Mackie had been more faithful, more comforting and the provider of more joy than any guy who’d entered her life. So her bladder failed her from time to time. She was 14, for chrissakes. As the vodka seeped into her bloodstream, Sherry felt the warmth of sentimentality consume her. She lowered herself to the floor again, this time next to Mackie.

“Sweet baby,” she whispered, stretching her arms around Mackie, who wagged her tail and licked Sherry’s cheek. Sherry reached behind Mackie’s ears, scratched and hugged Mackie close. Her eyes watered. “Damn it,” she muttered. She didn’t want to lose Mackie, didn’t want to have to decide to have her put down. “Put down” – what an ignoble fate. She closed her eyes and lay back on the dog bed, Mackie stretched out beside her. “Dog hair,” she thought, imagining how utterly cloaked in shed black strands she’d be when she stood up.

She pushed the thought aside. Or rather, tried to. She was wearing her favorite white button-up shirt after all, the one she tried to wash as little as possible to extend its life. The one Clark had bought for her because she kept stealing his, thrilled to have a boyfriend whose clothes she could “borrow.” Ultimately, the novelty of fitting into his shirts, his sweaters, his jeans wore off – his shortness in stature made his clothes ideal, but his personality insufferable. No more short men, she swore. But she still loved the shirt. Not as much as Mackie, but enough to think twice about letting it get covered in short black dog hairs.

Sherry stood up. Reached down to scritch Mackie’s belly. Mackie turned her head just enough to look at her. How much she could see, Sherry was unsure. But those dark eyes had seen so much over the years. The good boyfriends and the bad. No one else knew Sherry so well, yet remained so purely refrained from judgment. Her eyes filled again. She sobbed once, twice, then regained her grip upon her emotions. A long breath and she was back in the kitchen, adding ice to her glass, pouring another couple fingers’ worth of vodka.

Maybe I should date a vet, she thought. She looked at the dwindled supply of vodka. Maybe I should date a vet who likes to drink. The thought of dating sent a wave of fatigue through her body. She leaned on the counter, felt herself slide down to the floor, her glass slipping from her fingers, not breaking, but bouncing against the tile, rolling over sideways, ice clinking out against the red squares. Mackie started at the noise, trotted into the kitchen, nosed into Sherry’s side. “It’s OK, baby,” she said. “It’s OK.”