Ah, the winter holidays. A time for curling up by a warm fire, safely out of the – oops, never mind. Santa needed those training skis, this year, the ones with the wheels.
Calendars are funny things. My wife, She Who Must Be Taunted, and I go shopping for a new calendar every November, so we can start recording our copious social events for the next year (okay, they’re mostly medical appointments, but occasionally they’re social events). And every year, the choices multiply. Last year, our calendar was of the Group of Seven, a gang of Canadian artists who would be famous if they were American; this year, it’s old railroad posters for the national parks. And then in December, every year, my brother sends us a Shutterfly calendar full of pictures of our adorable (so far) nephew, and then we have two calendars. His timing is terrible, but that’s not the point.
The point is that time has passed, again, and we, as a society, have chosen this arbitrary date to turn the page, metaphorically and physically. It makes no sense. Why now? Why here, in the depths of winter? No offense to the folks in Australia, but we Northerners invented the Gregorian calendar, and it’s not particularly pleasant to be hit between the eyes with a demand for reflection here in the midst of seasonal affective disorder and what ought to be, if we hadn’t ruined the planet, a liberal coating of that abysmal substance that I can’t even bring myself to name.
I despise the passage of time, but if I’m forced to reflect, I’ve gotta say, it’s been a great year, really. SWMBT and I traveled all over: to the Berkshires, to Austin, to New Yawk City, to Chicago, Cleveland, Lancaster PA, Vermont. We saw most of our best friends. We saw “Whister’s Mother” at the Clark Museum (she’s doing well, thanks for asking). We saw the Sargent retrospective at the Met. We visited Watkins Glen State Park, with its 19 lovely waterfalls. SWMBT frolicked in the ole swimmin’ hole at our friends’ retreat in the Northeast Kingdom. And I’ve recorded the largest part of what’s turning out to be my best album to date, by far.
But day to day, like many people, I tend to dwell on the things that need sanding, especially in this here newsletter, because, well, they also tend to be good material. And in response to a newsletter a while back, one of my correspondents, someone for whom melancholy is a faithful companion, told me, “your life, with all your self-proclaimed dysfunction, really helps me with mine”. And my correspondent meant it gratefully, which warmed my twisted, cynical heart. But it also got me thinking.
I trade in snark. It is, without a doubt, my badge of honor, my sword, and my shield. As SWMBT might say, I work in snark as lesser people work in marble. So some of you might not suspect that I have a gooey, nougat center. But I do. And while those of us who aim to make people laugh will market our own limitations, shortcomings, mishaps, and all, I was a little troubled about my “self-proclaimed dysfunction”. Because, really, I have no right to complain.
It’s been a great year. I have a good job. I have dear friends. I’m healthy, and talented, and financially secure, and I live in a lovely, cozy home in a fabulous city, and, most important, I have a wife who’s just the bee’s knees who absolutely adores me (someday I’ll figure out why). In other words, life-wise, I hit the lottery.
We must never speak of this again.