I wrapped Christmas lights around some peculiar pole in the corner of my apartment. Sort of looks like a giant candy cane now. Twinkling lights, no less. I also erected a 2-foot Christmas tree and set it atop my bookshelf in the other corner. And I'm not going to lie, I just wanted to type "erected" just now. But I do love my Christmas tree. And the lights. And Christmas. I'm like an 11-year-old.
At night, I've been doing my daily living by the light of the Christmas lights. Watching TV, cleaning, hanging out. Sometimes I'll just lie in bed and watch the lights twinkle. It makes me SO HAPPY. I go straight to my happy place.
As kids, my sister and I used to have a sleepover in her bedroom the night before Christmas. We'd do our best to sleep, but give me a break, all we'd do is roll over and giggle and tease each other about what Santa was bringing. We'd leave the Christmas lights on all night, and although it always made the room too bright to even pretend to sleep, we didn't care. IT WAS CHRISTMAS. And when the clock struck a reasonable hour (in our minds, 4 a.m. was a reasonable hour), we'd start throwing things at the bedroom wall adjacent to mom and dad to wake them up because OMG PRESENTS.
It was always a sleepless, long, agonizing night. Just. Want. To. Open. Presents. I loved being a kid. Everything was exciting. Christmas Eve topped that list.
So now, at 27, I can lay in my room with the Christmas lights on and pretend I'm 9. Pretend it's the night before Christmas. I remember and re-live that joy, and for that moment I'm in my happy place.