Why hello from sunny California, where every man and his dog has left town for the holidays, and the remaining population (comprised predominantly of Uber drivers) is freaking out at how “abnormally cold” it is to the point of blasting the AC at 30 degrees Celsius in the car en route to organic-gluten-free-vegan brunch, all the while wearing cashmere and actual fur coats. Cut to: 17 degrees out, MZ sweating in the sun come midday in a camisole. More importantly, no amount of water consumption, coconut/jojoba/avocado oil application, or avoidance of hot showers, has been able to save my face from feeling like it’s cracking off. Help a sister out here. I’ve tried everything short of buying a humidifier for my hotel room.
I think I’m going to buy a humidifier for my hotel room.
Meanwhile, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, how’s your mother, et cetera, et cetera. ‘Tis the season for overeating and overzealous commitment to too-high shoes, too-short dresses and too many sparkles – generally followed by desperately nebulous resolutions about The New You for The New Year. In full disclosure, this is probably my cop-out post in lieu of such riveting articles as “10 sexy NYE lip colours to try”, “How to DIY a festive table like a Domestic Goddess” and most importantly, “Must-have look-at-me frocks to land that New Year’s Kiss”. Fortunately, my family doesn’t celebrate Christmas (or Easter… or any other pseudo-religious holiday that attracts mass themed chocolate production), so I have never had those temporal signposts between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Day to be able to question my character and promise myself to exercise more, or eat less, or save for a car, or be kinder to people, or save the planet.
Then I wake up one morning and just like that it’s August, yet I’m still toting that skittish January mentality of “gearing up for The New Year”. By October,
I’m more cynical than my 88-year-old paternal grandmother, and by December 31, I’m a dehydrated vegetable, sleep-deprived to the point that trying to sleep more actually makes me more tired (which is actually a thing – circadian rhythms are brutally honest).
So, as we crawl on our elbows (across broken glass) through the last Hump Day of the year, the takeaway is that it’s ok to be an a puffy-eyed, moody mess. Yes, Instagram and commercialised American festivities tell us that your Christmas Day food spread flat-lay should have been perfect, you should have your pasted-on smile down-pat, and you ought to look crash hot in your uncharacteristically tight NYE dress even before your New Year’s resolution gym membership kicks in. Ironically, everyone I know seems to need a holiday to recover from the holidays.
But let’s be real. It’s been a big year. It’s ok to be wiped out from working bloody hard. Just take it easy. There-in lies the reward.