Exit Stage Left

One of the things about Christmas that I've always liked is the cards. I've sent out Christmas cards for probably close to ten years and it used to be that it'd take me weeks to get them all written out, addressed and in the mail. I'd write personal notes to everyone, updating them on the past year and inquiring about theirs. I always use red or green ink and hand-write every note; no cheesy update letter here. I always order my cards from Unicef and they're not cheap (usually about $12 for a box of 10), but I like the sentiments they carry and I like that my money goes to a good organization. After this year I'm starting to rethink cards all-together.

This year I managed to get my cards in the mail in time for them to arrive at most desintations before the official holiday, but I wrote nothing aside from "Merry Christmas" (yes, I chose this greeting above the more P.C. "Happy Holidays") and a scrawl of my name. Of course, who'd really be interested to know that Linus got deathly ill in July but pulled through or that Millie is quite content to lounge 24/7 in front of the heat register or better yet that I work about 70 hours every week and write on my blog in an attempt to "do something new." You're right; nobody cares about that, and quite frankly I don't want to write about it. I used to send out more than 100 cards, carefully e-mailing everyone to make sure I had the correct address, but this year the final count was 29. 29. That's it. 29 people who I thought might like to hear from me. And, better yet, at least ten of those cards went to family members (or like-family members) with whom I never speak the rest of the year: namely my three cousins on my Dad's side, their parents and my Stepmom's family who I've not spoken to since I moved out of Dads house when I was 15. Sad. I'm not sure why I decided that they were finally worth the $.39 when I can't seem to convince myself of that the rest of the year. I'm pathetic.

In recent years, Christmas cards have also reminded me that I'm both old and a spinster. I know that because each January my refrigerator is cluttered with holiday photos of my dear friends and their spouses and children (are we even old enough to get married?!). I love getting the picture cards, but there's nothing that makes you feel more out of place than knowing that your friends have had a year interesting enough that it can be documented only by a photo (which, as you know, speaks a thousand words) and you can barely muster a "Merry Christmas."

Merry Christmas.