I’ve been pretty flexible lately. I don’t mean in a Jane Fonda/contortionist way, but in
making due being happy with the less desirable option. I would have loved some of the snow that Chicago got yesterday while I was decorating my tree, but enjoyed trimming my tree while rain pelted the roof nonetheless. It certainly would have been fun to go out last weekend to try a mixologist’s carefully concocted and vigorously shaken holiday treat, but the cranberry infused vodka I made says holiday pretty clearly, and on the cheap. And on that note, I am content to cook these last and next few days—having so thoroughly enjoyed my Boston getaway. This is how my life often goes: Susie Spendthrift one week, Frugal Fanny the next; on top of the world one week, feeling sorry for myself the next.
Tonight, a few hours after dropping off more than a hundred toys, books, games and puzzles—donated by students and faculty and collected by the student group I advise—for military families for Christmas, I really, really get that I have no right to feel sorry for myself. Shame on me for congratulating myself for being resilient. As if I’m slumin’ it.
Being home with my beautiful tree and homemade pizza and a festive cocktail is nothing less than a blessing.