Any time I Can Be Alone Is My Favorite Day

childhood, family, Human Capabilities, introverts, irony, Life, My LIfe, patterns, people 1 Minute

What is your favorite holiday? Why is it your favorite?

I’ve always had a problem with attention on me or the hustle and bustle of holidays.

It’s counterintuitive to me that people act one way because someone said a day is different and then revert back when it was over.

I learned that it’s because of my introverted nature that causes me to process things differently than others.

It’s why days alone to recharge are better for me. They are my vacation and holidays.

I never got birthdays either. It’s just another day for me. I prefer not being the center of attention.

I’m glad others get excited about it but it’s not for me.

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Published by John

My blog is about my personal opinions only and do not reflect or represent any company that I work for either past, present or future. I will not hesitate to use the benefit of my experiences in telling the story of what goes on in the real world. beep/bop/boop

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One thought on “Any time I Can Be Alone Is My Favorite Day”

  1. On the Day of the Longest Night of 2000

    Thirty-something women

    Cameras poised, at the ready

    Anticipation

    Each convinced

    That hers is the most

    Precious

    Bright

    Vivacious

    Charming

    Child ever produced in the history of the planet

    Swarm of boys

    Stairsteps

    15 months

    To 15 years

    Screaming

    Yelling

    Shrieking

    Shredding packages

    Disdainful of the ribbons

    And bows

    And colors

    And patterns

    And skill

    The women devoted to the wrappings

    Dogs scurrying

    Barking

    Pestering

    Investigating

    Chewing on toes and bows

    And a cat serenely, nonverbally,

    But curiously condemning it all

    Toys tossed

    Clothes strewn

    Forgotten

    In favor of the next surprise

    “That’s mine!”

    “No!  It’s mine!!”

    And mothers refereeing

    And fathers perched at the edges of chairs,

    Patience and anticipation locked in mortal combat

    The granddame regally surveys the burgeoning piles

    Of toys

    Of trash

    Of pets

    Of grandchildren

    And glows . . . inside and out.

    No better word comes to mind.

    Hams, and turkey, and yams, and eggs, and potatoes

    Quietly cook in the uncommon quiet of the kitchen

    While dressing and bread and peas and corn

    Wait their turn in the dark safety of the pantry

    And the old man opens his packets of shirts

    And books

    And golf balls

    And waits

    For the din to subside

    Then he gathers the paper

    And boxes

    And ribbons

    And bows 

    For tomorrow’s curbside pickup

    And that’s all as it should be,

    I suppose.

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