An Impasse

Of course, you all know that I start decorating for Christmas on November 1st. Down come the fall decorations and up go the Christmas. Or rather, down come the fall decorations, out of the fall bins come the regular decorations, in go the fall decorations, out come the Christmas decorations and in go the regular decorations. This is a long process. This takes many hours. The house is a wreck for days. (weeks?) It's like a precisely choreographed dance number. I'm the prima ballerina, spinning in a pink tulle tutu, full of magic and glitter. Making it all work. Bringing the pizazz.

Usually I keep my cool and pump the whole thing out in a weekend. Sure, my legs are tired afterward and I need new toe shoes, but this is what I've been practicing the whole year through for! This is the big show! However, this year things kind of got...out of hand. I had a lot going on and didn't have the time to put my nose to the grindstone. I did have time to make a huge mess and leave it for days on end. I did have the time to sit listlessly staring at aforementioned mess and wondering, "what?"..."how?"... Suddenly the ballerina is stumbling blindly down an alleyway in a drunken stupor, one pink shoe dragging behind her, a sparkling tiara askance on her curls, pink tutu covered in debris as she tearily insists, "Hey, you're the best, you know? I mean, you're really the guy." to a bum in a cardboard box.


When you are sitting in rooms strewn with paper amid rubber tubs half full of holiday decor, half of broken dreams, unable to move forward, unable to move back, you've come to a certain spot in your life. This my friends, is called an impasse. It happens when you lose control. When your collections start to dictate your every move and you can't quite recall who you really are or what you are doing. When you just keep thinking, "My god there is a lot of stuff here. I'm not even sure I could make my way to the bathroom though all of this mess, should I have need. How did this happen? Where am I, anyway?" You look in the mirror at your dirty pink tutu and fear you've gone 'round the bend.


When this happens you can no longer help yourself. Outside forces must act upon you to snap you back to the reality at hand. This, I am thankful to say, happened for me. It came in the form of my saintly husband stubbing his toe on the third plastic tote that I had crammed into the limited walking space in the dining room.

As he howled, trying not to curse my name, Christmas, the Grinch and Charlie Brown, jumping up and down on one foot, I snapped to. Back to reality. "You're a ballerina, damn it, now dance!!"

Cuts had to be made. I only have x amount of space in this small house and y amount of decor is not going to fit into it. You do the math. (Because math and I split up in 9th grade and I don't like talking to him.)

Culling the collection is never an easy job for me. I like my stuff. Especially my holiday stuff. Every tiny little bauble. Even though it wracked me with guilt, cull I did. Six things. Six. Holy crap. I think that bum stole my tiara!