Back to life, back to reality-- better as an En Vogue hook than it is as a mantra. Despite The Boy's insistence that I would need many coats in New England for Christmas, I did not. It was balmy, for December, and another rainy Christmas. It was also bittersweet. Due to the various home improvement, life reshuffling and Christmas preparations crowding our house and marriage, I realized on the quiet ride up the turnpike that we had been less than connected, or at least less than we'd like. So, that got fixed in Connecticut.We slept on an aerobed in my brother-in-law's unfurnished condo. When we woke up Christmas morning, he with a hangover and I with severe sleep deprivation that might as well have been a hangover, he laughed. "This is probably how a lot of couples start out on their first Christmas." My allergies and I were glad we do not sleep in such close proximity to the floor in our natural habitat. Christmas felt weird being away from my family and their home. It's also not typical for me to stay up into such wee hours the night before Christmas without carols or wrapping or candles. It made me sad, and we promised it would be different next time, no matter where we were.
We celebrated the twin brothers in laws' 30th birthdays, which was a blast. I wore the KILLER shoes The Boy got me (which, apparently, are now on sale). I spent some time with my sister in law and got to know the boys' girlfriends a little more. We didn't see everyone we wanted to see; we hit more houses than I ever had on a major holiday; and surprisingly, the dog behaved spectacularly for the vast majority of the trip. So it was good, all in all.
New Year's Eve (day) was spent at the Terps game The Boy managed to wrangle tickets to after two years of trying, and he was a very good sport when I insisted he wear a red Maryland shirt. When he complained the borrowed t-shirt was too baggy, I half-heartedly pouted, "Fine. Wear whatever you want." Despite pairing it with dress shoes, he wore the shirt anyway. We returned home for football, homemade fondue, and steak on the couch. Despite condolences from friends and strangers alike and my own silent worries that our first married New Years should be a bit flashier, I thoroughly enjoyed the evening.
And now, our house has been stripped of its Christmas cheer; gold glitter and green branches sit in boxes in the basement along with faux red berries the dog refuses to believe aren't real. It looks naked and seems vaguely sad, but I'm eager to move on.
Here, in the second official week of January, I am officially unsure what happens next. I anticipate being on the receiving end of an Uncomfortable Conversation at work this week, but I continue to lay low. The Boy and I are awaiting news that would change just about everything, and it's taking longer than we had hoped. I'm working on trusting and waiting, seeking and being still. Admittedly, I'm not much good at ignoring logistics. I'm trying hard to stop offering my services to my God who seems to relish taking longer than I planned. Being here now, that advice I laughed at in college and now dole out to just about anyone who will listen, seems to be getting harder.
