I love this time of year. Love it. It's simply the best, and I'll argue the point to anyone who'll listen. For a two-ish month period of time, all seems right with the world. I can't start listening to Christmas carols soon enough. I know if I dust off the holiday albums too soon, people will think I'm crazy, but I couldn't even hold off 'til Thanksgiving this year. This week I gave into temptation. The sounds of Jewel and Mariah Carey (yes, Mariah Carey) and Trans Siberian Orchestra doing the songs I love most have begun to fill my car, and I couldn't be happier.
The music this time of year just makes me giddy. And I love the chill in the air, the bite that makes you bundle in coats and scarves and gloves. I love fireplaces. I love snow -- even if in sunny South Carolina I'm left only with pictures and fantasies of it. I love poinsettias, blankets, berries, wreaths, bows, pies. The meals, the desserts, the time with family, the green, the red, the gold and the silver all fill me to the brim.
When it does snow, is there anything better than lying down in the bed of white, arms and legs outstretched, making snow angels? Building snowmen? Hands and noses red and raw and so cold and numb they burn?
I love stockings and candy canes and, for a short while, the sensation that everything, the big, the small, the important, the miniscule, everything will work out. Everything will be ok.
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