I desperately needed to leave the house this morning, be it because of the constant symphony of birds-hitting-windows that was driving me crazy or perhaps the mere fact that I needed groceries. Henceforth, I attempted to spice up my life by writing my shopping list in Irish, brewed some rather weak tea, and set off.
But at a busy, Christmas-infested Wal-Mart, upon feeling my own sunken face as if it were composed of so much melted wax, I noticed the rest of the world. I noticed all of the tired, weary faces around me and couldn't help but think that nobody really wants to celebrate the season; nobody wants Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, holidays. Nobody. We only do it for the children.
So upon leaving the store, I sheepishly crammed a crumpled dollar into the Salvation Army bucket in a pathetic attempt to salvage any holiday spirit left in the atmosphere. Upon witnessing this awkward demonstration, the bell ringer, probably the most kind and polite soul I will encounter today, asked God to bless me and sent me on my way. And I pitifully fa-la-la-ed my way to the car, serenaded all the way by a screaming, crying child that we are doing all of this for.
An hour later, after checking half of an item off of my List of Things to Do Before I Die, I returned home.