Christmastime, it seems to me, has become an increasingly melancholy holiday as of late. Despite my best intentions, the older I get, the deeper the ache seems to resonate. Perhaps it’s the weight of decades of exhausted anticipation, spent reverie, and cumulative disappointment that has taken its toll, resulting in a profound numbness that can best be described as gray. The feeling becomes most pronounced in that barren wasteland of time between Christmas and January 1st. 168 hours spent reflecting back while keeping one cautious eye on the new year that is relentlessly barreling towards me. It’s there that I’m forced to confront my dwindling mortality, struggling to hold on to as much of the childlike sense of wonderment that fueled my preadolescent existence.
The euphoria of the season may have peaked back in 1982, otherwise known as the “Year of the Atari.” Ten years old really was the sweet spot for maximum Christmas enjoyment, maybe even for the entirety of my life. I had everything right there in front of me. Youthful idealism and possibilities that the future promised came together to forge an optimism that seemed boundless. As adults, our indomitable need to assess, reevaluate, and second guess every ounce of minutia that comprise our lives eliminates any space for unearned optimism leaving only those few weeks leading up to Christmas for us to settle into the proper holiday spirit. This self-imposed rewiring of our priorities may come naturally at the time, but it is no less jarring when at the insistence of reality, it gets switched back off only a short time later. This swing back to the real world is profound and sets the tone for January, which is inarguably the worst month of the year.
Bleak, joyless, and withering January is a grinding, sputtering, teeth-rattling cold restart to the engine of time. Here the echos of the holiday still linger while the year tries awkwardly to find its footing. We flounder, sputter, and mostly shuffle our way through, holding on to seemingly fewer and fewer shards of hope. Each passing year stands as a grim reminder that one by one, the days unwind until the last gift of life is ultimately unwrapped, and nothing more remains. Despite this existential reckoning, I find myself able to avoid crashing headlong into nihilism and even now can pull the nose up and set a hopeful course skyward. For now, I’ll guide my sleigh full of memories onward into the year, knowing that the shadow that darkens December is cast from the ghosts of my past and prepare myself to face them once again.
Mannino Acid 