The day after Christmas.  When you’re a kid, it’s the worst day of the year.  It’s SO LONG till Christmas Day again.  When you’re an adult, and I have to say specifically a female adult (cuz that’s what I relate to), it’s the best day of the year. Because it’s SO LONG till Christmas Day again.  I think if you turn down the TV, turn off the music and stick your head outside your door, you’ll hear a sweet rush of air.  It’s not a cold front moving in, even though as I sit here in 80 degrees, I wouldn’t mind, but it’s the tired, relieved collective sigh of women all over America exhaling after feeling the weight of their household’s happiness on their shoulders for the last month, finally lifted.  My sigh of relief isn’t as heavy this year, as my kids are grown now, but I so remember feeling that huge sense of relief when all the presents were opened, all the secrets revealed, all the stockings – emptied. Everyone was pretty happy.  Happy enough.  Maybe they didn’t get every single thing they asked for, but they were still well-compensated.

Ah, to be a kid again.  Filled with hopes and wishes and absolutely no feeling of responsibility for anyone else’s fulfillment of hopes and wishes.  The thing about childhood is, you can never go back.

So to all my fellow-adult-females out there, I say “Good work!  Now, relax!”  No more Elf to move, stockings to stuff, presents to prepare, roasts to roast to perfection.  No more cookies to decorate, Pinterest posts to parallel.  No more “out-original-ing” someone else’s super-original-something-or-other.  Take 11 months off!  (Or until the next birthday in your household . . . but no pressure.)