Skip to main content

Surviving the Holidays

A piece I love in the NYT acknowledges that the holidays can be sort of awful. Maybe not relentlessly awful, but also maybe not a relentless source of good cheer. (And the demand to feel, or to feign, good cheer can often make things more challenging.)

The Times suggests a few things:

*Dig out your controlled breathing exercises.
*Carry a photo that you enjoy looking at. (I think reaching for the photo could be a substitute for emotional eating.)
*Have a plan for therapeutic music time. (Again, the song you enlist can be a substitute for emotional eating. I seem drawn to Kristin Chenoweth's cover of "When I Fall in Love.")
*Feeling lonely? Be in public, even if you're alone in public. Go walk around the town square, or eat in a restaurant, or see a movie.
*Quietly distance yourself from an irritating or negative person. You don't have an obligation to make nice with the relative who wants to talk about your weight, or to download several hours of unsolicited thoughts on impeachment. You get to take care of yourself, and walk away. (Jami Attenberg has advice for talking to a certain kind of man: Allow your eyes to get glassy and murmur, "Ah, that's interesting." Or say: "I think I need to check something in the other room!" And scurry away.)

All fine advice, if you ask me. Have a happy holiday. Or: Have a Zen holiday. Have the holiday you're going to have.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...