For now, however, I'd like to say that I'm happy that it's finally the holidays. I have an unofficial half-day tomorrow, but I have every intention of lying low, avoiding the massive amounts of work I suspect one of my coworkers is getting ready to dump on me, and sneak out early to shop at Anthropologie. I sold my Handspring Visor three weeks ago and promised myself a new sweater, but I have had no time to shop during my crazy days.

Materialism. It's the season, I guess.

I'm a little blue about not going home for Christmas this year, but not that badly. It occurred to me today, though, that Christmas will never really be the same as it once was. My holidays throughout college and during the years I lived on the East Coast were spent lounging around my father's house, being goofy, getting drunk with my stepmom, napping, taking my dogs for long walks, and just being as carefree and relaxed as possible. It was truly my definition of home.

Now that I'm getting married, I have a feeling it's going to be less leisurely. A lot of back and forth between my mom's and dad's, probably more formal and structured meals for A.'s sake, possibly more entertaining of A., who would be bored just sitting around spooking the dogs with the Tickle Me Elmo, or pretending that our dogs talk like Beavis and Butthead, or the thousand of other stupid patterns that I always fell into while at home over Christmas. I'll feel more like a visitor. I might even have to start staying in a hotel when I go home — my dad is building a big new house with guest rooms, but it would be very politically dangerous, where my mother is concerned, for A. and me to stay there. It will be worse when we have kids. It makes me sad, actually, to think that without fanfare, without actual recognition, that era of my life is over.