Today is November 1st. It's the day of All Saints, the middle of Dia de los Muertos in Mexico, and "Candyfest" to my kids.
For me, it's "Ohmigosh-Here-Come-the-Holidays-Deer-in-the-Headlights" Day.
As I unwrap the umpteeth chocolate purloined from my daughter or son's candy bag, I'm already building up regret for the holiday pounds to come or the extra exercise it will take to prevent them. I'm dropping my head under a pillow as I think of the casseroles to bake, the gifts to buy and the possibility that this could be the year we actually re-instate the sending of holiday cards.
It's also the day that the time changes back to early darkness - just to remind us that as the year rounds to an end, we've not only got more to do, we've also got fewer daylight hours in which to do it.
Doesn't seem fair, does it? Kind of like a 60-day hangover that lasts from now until next year.
It makes me dream of winning the lottery and taking an extended trip to an exotic, remote locale - preferably a "Saint-something," where I'm waited on hand and foot and look fabulous in my ski suit or swimsuit (depending on the fantasy), only returning home when the first buds of spring emerge.
Well, that ain't happ'nin. So I propose a revolt.
Why do we wait until what should be the beginning of winter and the last of the year to add all this extra hoopla to our already busy lives?
Instead, let's move Thanksgiving to May, when we're truly happy for warm spring weather, and Christmas to July when there's no chance of getting cheesy sweater from Aunt Sally. Then, let's declare November through February as "Sleep Season," where it is completely socially acceptable to hibernate (mentally at least, if not physically). It's a lot cheaper than that exotic trip.
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