And to All a Good Night

I haven't stopped crying for the past thirty minutes.  Not only is it unattractive, but it's also disgusting since I forgot to bring (or didn't think I needed to bring) tissues on the plane and I can't stop sniffling (much to the chagrin of the flyer next to me.)  My face is leaking.  This is what happens when you cry.  Which I rarely do in any capacity and I NEVER do in public.  For the first time in my life, Christmas only lasted 48 hours.  I know this seems like a ridiculous reason to cry.  Christmas lasting "only" 48 hours may also seem peculiar to the average plebian.  

Christmas lasts two days for most of the world: Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.  In my big, uber-Christian, fabulous big-hearted Texan family, the Christmas season begins November 26th and ends January 1st.  Hardcore Christmas lasts approximately two weeks.  It is a marathon event.  In fact, it is almost like camp. Camp Christmas.  The day after Thanksgiving, tree, lights and snow village go up.  The Old-lady-geared "Neath the Wreath" Christmas craft bazaar is attended.  In the week preceding Christmas, we generally have 2 extended family Christmases. The week of Christmas, we do the following: make blankets on my late Grandmother's birthday for people in need (a tradition we began while she was still living because that's the kind of woman she was--one who would rather make gifts for others on her own birthday...if that isn't the Christmas spirit, I don't know what is), attend the Christmas Eve service, watch Muppet Christmas Carol and It's A Wonderful Life (these are the only two mandantory Christmas films), have "little Christmas" of present exchange between me, my mother, and my sister the night of Christmas Eve, have both sides of the family over for Christmas morning brunch made by mom, attend Christmas on my dad's side all day (snacks, stockings, dinner, program/talent show, gifts, games), spend all day at my other Grandmother's for Christmas there (similar regimen), go to Holiday in the Park at Six Flags with my Deaton cousins, take the train down to Spaghetti Warehouse downtown and then Starbucks at Mockingbird Station, and spend several days just hangin' with the fam. We hang, we play games, we go see movies, we eat endlessly, sometimes we venture out, we may visit Northpark Mall (my mothership), but mostly we just enjoy each others' company. It is blissful.  Christmas has always been far and away my favorite time of year and I would say if there were a Christmas happiness pie chart, it would contain 80% Grandmama magic, 5% that i wasnt in school (which is now every day...meaning I get a little Christmas every stinkin' day), and 15% my whole family is made of awesome and we do Christmas right. 

This year, I was blessed with the burden of adulthood. I was further 'burdened' by immediately finding a job.  My job suits me to a 'T'. I love the gypsy lfe.  I love traveling.  I love performing.  For the last 14 weeks, I have lived in beautiful Lancaster, Pennsylvania.  Now, if you had told me senior year of high school that in four years I'd be performing for a living in the Northeast, beach, and desert I would have a) laughed in your face and b) kissed you.  If I had it my way (and gosh I hope I do), I'd maintain this kind of lifestyle for at least the next five years.  The only real detriment is that you don't necessarily get vacations (because, well, your life is like one fabulous vacation...performing and traveling and exploring). This really wouldn't bother me any time besides Christmas.  Despite the love of my current life, I can't really think of the last time I was as sad as I was entering DFW airport today having been with my family for just a couple of days and knowing the fun of Camp Christmas was far from over.  I briskly instructed my sister and mother not to cry (knowing the second either of them showed any emotion I'd be a goner) and naturally started weeping the second I entered the airport.  It was truly awful.  And I know it's stupid. To make matters worse, I elected to "borrow" my mother's 5 lb weights (because I stupidly assumed she wouldn't miss them as I have them every time I'm home and she doesn't seem to miss them then) and pack them in a carry-on.  Of course, the scanner picks them up in security. I get patted down.  My shoes are patted. My bun is patted (this is not the first tme this has happened...what exactly do they think I am hiding in there??). My bag is searched. I am instructed to check a second bag (more money wasted) and go through security again.  While sobbing like a stupid mess.  It was exhausting and miserable and would probably be a hilarious reality tv show in some schadenfreude kind of way.  Anyway, some money and tears and security trips later, I made it in time to board my flight.  Still crying like a goon.

And frankly, between seeing old friends from Me and My Girl (the first show I did in Lancaster) and being in 84 degree weather on the beach, I know I will soon be happy as a clam (see? I made an ocean pun.  Sad people can be funny).  And more frankly, I already kinda miss my beloved Northeast. And it will all be okay.

I welcome this kind of challenge.  In the grand scheme of things, I still really couldn't be happier.  I can't wait to experience new shows and new theatres and new cities.  And if my sister and mother feel led to compulsively visit me (and/or the rest of my big wonderful family...nudge, nudge, wink, wink) that would just be grand.  We'll just list this as a slightly painful stretch mark from my seemingly skyrocketing theatrical growth spurt. (Not like my career is skyrocketing--just that I am continuing to learn tons in a stupid amount of time.)

These are good things. Being an adult is a good thing.  It can just kinda hurt sometimes.

To my family: I hate to be redundant, but I really do wish I had more time with you. I love you all so much and hope you continue to have a wonderful holiday season!

To my co-workers: how blessed are we to do what we do? I'm so thrilled to continue spreading my wings with you as company.

To my readers: I can't believe you read this. But bless you.

To the rest of you: Merry Christmas!

And to all: a good night.

Blue Christmas

There's nothing terribly magical about Christmas in Dallas. Living in the Northeast over the past few months has taught me a number of things--most notably, perhaps, that we Texans are pretty aesthetically deprived when it comes to scenery. We effectively only have two "seasons": summer, and ugly not-summer. And yet, my favorite time of year since I was very young has been Christmastime. I loved the music and baked goods and presents (of course). I loved Christmas at Northpark mall with the 12 days of Christmas and Scrooge and children's choirs singing holiday music. I loved Advent time because it has the prettiest hymns in the Episcopalian hymnal. I loved Advent Family Sunday. I loved it when Lola Dill (my wonderful piano teacher) let me start playing Christmas music and not just Baroque and Classical. I loved stuffing my face with sand tarts and Grandmother's tea cakes (they are NOT sugar cookies, just so you know.) But most of all I loved the time spent with family. I grew up with (and still have) the best family in the world. There are lots of us (on both sides) and we all enjoy the following: time together, games (especially cards and Monopoly on my mom's side and fun holiday games on my dad's), the Muppet Christmas Carol, (A Christmas Story on my mom's side--though I don't share this love) and food. Lots and lots of food. I love my family's Christmas traditions: the beautiful brass service Christmas Eve at the church, Brunch at our house Christmas morning, and days spent in food-comas from every variety of home-cooked goodness, casseroles, and most importantly mashed potatoes. In later years, I loved the tradition of bringing my best friends from high school (both of whom happened to be Jewish) to family Christmas. Which brings me to the very best part of Christmases past: Grandmama. She pretty much embodied everything wonderful about the holidays. Selflessness, love, charity, and a kind of purity that is unparalleled and I suspect singular to her. She LOVED Christmas--every aspect of it. What it represents, the music, the way it brings people together, and the time spent with family. And she always strove (and succeeded) to make it perfect. So it was. And maybe I was so determined last year to be strong at Christmas without her and simultaneously distracted by having a boyfriend and juggling his Christmas with my own that I couldn't be upset or really let myself miss her. Maybe I felt the need to put on a happy face for the rest of the family. In fact, I'm sure we all did. But this year much more than last year at this time, I find myself thinking about her and wishing I could share with her what I'm doing with my life and how happy I am and how well my sister and I get along now that we're a little older and establishing our own lives (but she knew that would happen) and how I can't wait to be home with her for the holidays and hug her wonderful self and smell perfume from her Christmas vests and go to Northpark for an epic Christmas shopping spree that lasts the whole day. Because the truth is: it will never be the same. I still have the same wonderful family and we all love each other very much and we all share such wonderful memories, but we have to establish a new normal. Which we're capable of. And we will do. And I know Grandmama's daughters will continue the traditions and the magic (after all, she raised them and it's in their blood). And I know that my two newest cousins, Henry and Heidi, are helping heal the hurt and fill in some of that magic that left with Grandmama. And I know I will still have a wonderful Christmas and I can't wait to be home with my family.

And I know that the new normal will be okay.

We will make it so.