It Gets Earlier Every Year

In one week it will be Thanksgiving, and Santa will be following the rockettes, marching bands from Illinois, and various cheesy pop acts down Broadway. When they strung the Christmas lights over the avenues a couple weeks ago, I figured we had at least a month before they would be lit. I was wrong, and despite the unusually balmy weather this week, the wreaths and sleighbells and holly are giving off a cheerful glow as I walk home without a jacket. For some reason, this doesn't feel right.

Maybe it really is the unusually balmy weather. Or the fact that the Bryant Park market & skating rink is opening tomorrow, and it doesn't seem like a year has passed since I was going in circles (both literally and figuratively) with "the boat-guy" and wishing I didn't like someone who wore that much khaki. Or maybe it's that I still haven't come across someone to join me in my winter hibernation on the couch, and I have therefore failed in that particular resolution. Or maybe it just feels that every time I say "it gets earlier every year" makes me feel that much older (I'm not old). Anyways. I'm feeling a little out of sorts, which is not unusual, seeing as how I have not been able to shake the "what do I want to do with my life" gig and just get on with it.

In one week it will be Thanksgiving, and I will be waking up in my very own home full of my very large family and I know at least this will feel right. Something about knowing your family will always be around, even if the lights come on earlier and you haven't got a skating partner this year, something about this will always feel right.