Calendars are an arbitrary temporal construct of a society trying to make sense of the impossible
I’ve never liked the holidays.
I think it has something to do with that special chemistry in my brain that makes me shut down in crowds, be incapable of small talk, and requires a constant “normal person” performance whenever I’m around anyone else.
It’s been like this my entire life. It also doesn’t matter what holiday -- birthdays are included, mine especially.
When added to my other hangups, a pattern emerges that plainly reveals: I have (near) zero tolerance for useless bullshit. (Another armchair analysis might gaze longingly at a theory pointed at an early childhood trauma involving a menorah and a fake Christmas tree made from toxic chemicals that poisoned the air with noxious fumes once set ablaze. As with most theories, this didn’t actually happen. At least, not the literal flames of childhood.)
Holidays are useless bullshit, none more so than New Year's.
Sure, the calendar changes.
Society shifts.
Gaudy Christmas decorations become (even more) inappropriate.
But when I step outside and take a deep breath of air, feeling the Florida-cold nip at my shoulders through my tank top, and watch the backyard gator lazily make his rounds as he scans for idiot pet owners and their idiot, yipping gator snacks ... I wonder: is today really any different from that day before, that day from last year?
New Year's is the turn of an arbitrary calendar and a set of bullshit rules that make sense only to the society that crafted them.
And yet ...
As I awoke this morning to the fevered-pitch explosion of love from Jerry, my 4-legged non-gator-snack life partner, I couldn’t help but feel accomplished and -- gasp! -- happy.
January 1, 2024.
Today is a beautiful day.
Most days are beautiful lately. But today? With the arbitrary turn of the calendar? That beautiful blank slate of 2024 spread out before me like a buffet of bite-sized yipping gator snacks, and me, a metaphorical gator, with nothing to do but lazily cruise the metaphorical buffet line?
Thanks to that rogue brain chemistry I mentioned earlier, it’s always been a challenge to experience happiness, much less gratitude. Little things that break the way things should be instantly inflate and become Very Big Unavoidable Things. Eventually, people can’t stand to be around me.
I guess that’s why patience has become my most vital go-to mask over the last decade or so. And in 2023, I adopted the mantra: “Patience is the process” because there was virtually no (professional work-related) challenge that couldn’t be solved with a deep breath, a pause, and a(n eventual) measured response.
Along with patience, another thing I learned in 2023 was the Jordan Krumbine Recipe for Happiness:
✅ A dog to walk.
✅ A bike to ride.
✅ Food to eat.
✅ A peaceful place to rest my head.
✅ Creative expression that soothes the soul.
2023 was a transformative year. It brought the end of my last long-term relationship. (Despite going into it knowing it would never last -- and intentionally enjoying it while it did -- it was still pretty heart-wrenching to see it dissolve. My brain chemistry might be fucked, but my chemistry works just fine, thankyouverymuch.) But with the ex's departure came the arrival of my 4-legged non-gator-bait life partner, Jerry. And with Jerry came the (slow) closure of a childhood full of pet-related guilt and shame. (Not psychopath-related, just dumb-kid, victim-of-circumstance kinda shit.) And, again, with Jerry, came something I’ve apparently been questing for my entire life: unconditional love. Both to receive and give.
Then there’s the pandemic and the fact that I’m living in the middle of Florida, in the crotch-rot of a country that seems to want to become Florida, and all I have to do is walk Jerry around the block to hear how sick people continue to get.
I’m not saying I’ll never get COVID. But I am privileged enough to understand the long-term risk and live a life that keeps me safely bubbled, along with Jerry and the other two motherfuzzers who also love me, but I can’t put them in a harness and walk them around the block. (I did try harnessing them and. it. was. HILARIOUS.)
“You’re still COVIDing?! 1 -- you’re crazy, and 2 -- refusing to go out and do things kinda makes you crazy! 3 -- you’re sooooo crazzzzy!”
Yeah. Crazy not-sick, motherfuckers. Also, remember how crowds make me shut down? That’s right, I’m in that extreme minority that actually likes the home I bought and prefers to spend time in it. (Also: yes! I'm fortunate to have been able to buy the house in the first place!) I’m in that even smaller minority that prefers to give my pup multiple marathon walks a day. (Seriously, I’m out there a lot, and you’d think I’d see more of the community dog owners .) Cut that percentage down even smaller because -- fuck it -- I’ve spent my entire lifetime hating having to go out and do things.
So, the arbitrary calendar changes.
After our morning walk, Jerry snoozes in a sunbeam. The fluffy motherfuzzer is snoring in the window that looks out over my Perfect Backyard Bubble -- an expansive (gator-patrolled) retention pond bordering an endless Florida swamp.
I’m hydrating and caffeinating, passively pondering the return to my perfect job tomorrow and taking note of the total absence of anxiety.
Look, I know the world is a dark place right now. Horrible things continue to happen, abject evil continues to lurk, and idiot pet owners continue to feed the gator.
But for the first time in my life ... I’ve got this shit.
I’m excited for the New Year.
I’m happy.
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