The next step, creating the list, is the part I like least, because I start feeling all miserly and Scrooge-like. I regularly send more than 100 cards, but I certainly don't receive more than 100 cards. So, do I send a card to people who didn't send me a card? There is some time and expense involved. Do I make the effort for someone who rarely (or never) makes that effort for me? Truly, I don't even like posing the question — it feels petty and mean-spirited — and yet, I can't help it.
I usually land on the side of sending cards. Some of my best friends and favorite people are simply not Christmas-card-senders, and this is something I accept as part of who they are. Of my six bridesmaids, for example, I only regularly get a Christmas card/letter from one of y'all (and ironically, she's the one I'm least in touch with otherwise).
(To be fair, I should probably excuse Bride Boy since he's Jewish.)
My high school best friend never sends cards, and I'm always tempted to cross her off my list — but this card I send is our only remaining link. If I don't send the card — poof! We have no connection at all. I'm not quite ready to completely sever our connection.
And then I think, well, even if I do send a card to her, I can take her sister off the list, certainly, since we were never as close, and she no longer sends me a card — but how can I send a card to one sister and not the other?
Honestly, it's just easier to send a card to everyone and say that next year I'll cull my list. For sure!
Today was a pretty good day. Since I'm sure you're wondering, yes, I tried on the zumba shirt, and it's clingy but fits just fine. (It's a stretchy shirt, I think it would fit anybody.) But since it's clingy, I'm not sure how it will look with my usual zumba pants, which, I'm so proud to admit, are the stirrup pants I've been wearing since whenever stirrup pants were popular (pre-1991, I think); I simply cut off the bottoms so they end at my ankles. They are not remotely cute or jazzy, in other words. I pretty much look like a hobo at zumba. So . . . maybe I'll invest in some actual workout pants to wear with my super-cutey new shirt. Maybe.
(I hate, loathe, and detest clothes-shopping, which is a key part of the reason I'm wearing pants from 1991. But I know I gotta do it; my jeans are hanging on me like elephant skin. Good Neighbor Anne and I drove to Habitat to take a walk this weekend, and I said, When I get out of the car, look at my jeans, and she said, I saw your jeans, they're ridiculous.)
Another day of work work work, but I took a mid-day break and walked down the hill to Trader Joe's and up again (huffing and puffing, but I recovered quickly and my legs felt long and strong). I ran into my dog-walking neighbor, and we had a good chat about our mutual dear neighbor who just died, and that was nice.
I'm single-parenting tonight and had to go to the bank, which is in Lexington, so the kids and I had dinner at Bertucci's; I ordered an individual pizza with roasted zucchini and ate only half of it, plus some salad, and still, when we left, I felt uncomfortably full, which led to two realizations:
- I really thought I had stopped eating when I was satisfied, so this tells me I need to pay even closer attention.
- I haven't had that full-and-fat feeling in a long time. This was particularly cool to note, since I used to eat myself sick at restaurants on a regular basis.