Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the Thorsteinson house...dozens of people were putting so much champagne in their domes that the next day was bound to be about as productive as a Time Warner Cable customer service rep (oh snap?)
Yeah so anyway, I took a long, hard look at myself around 3pm on Christmas day: there I sat, still in my matching PJ set (Christmas tradition. Shut up), working on what must have been my 19th plate of leftovers, when suddenly it hit me: Christmas turns healthy, young adults into total assholes. When I was seven, I had a few major concerns for Christmas: 1) That Ma wouldn't be able to tell that I totally snuck open the presents days before hand 2) That the total number of presents I had was equal to or greater than that of my baby sister, and 3) That I got to spend the entire day chillin' with the 'rents and eating my Ma's food.
These days, geography and small scraps of dignity have eliminated concerns 1 and 2. Therefore it's all about number 3. As a child, the worst that happens is you get a raging sugar high from the 13 pieces of chocolate pie, crash, and then pass out while still clutching the Sega Genesis controller. As a grown ass woman, the sugar high is replaced with post-champagne shakes and a general perplexity at how efficiently I can become such gluttonous couch monster, after which I slip into a coma, still grasping my spankin' new Wii controller. Seriously, even my significantly overweight pug was more active than me on Christmas.
The next day, I slipped on my new socially acceptable Uggs (the ones that look like real boots. Damn the early 2000s for ruining the most comfortable footwear ever by pairing them with mini skirts. Fashion historians will someday weep), and forced myself out of the house to walk the aforementioned pug. It felt good to get the blood flowing. I felt less like a bed-ridden octogenarian from Willa Wonka and more like a, um, lady yanking on her squatting dog's leash to prevent him from pooping right in front of the holiday display outside the Palo Cedro Community Church. I swear, next year, Santa needs to hook that snorting little man up with a brain.
Christmas in the Thorsteinson house is magical. It is far and away my favorite place in the world. It is also a place where Danielle spends one entire calendar day as the most awesomely needy sloth that ever lived. Ever. That ever lived.
Man I can't wait for Christmas next year.
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