If I hear another Christmas song; eat another fat soaked dish; ingest another pound of processed granulated sugar in any form; and throw away another bow, box, crumpled-up wrapping paper or gift receipt; and bemoan my checking account one more time, I’ll write Santa a letter and ask him to kindly allow his reindeer to firmly stampede my body until it ceases to twitch with any form of life. With that said: I miss Christmas. “And, No,” I have no diagnosed mental disorder. But I’m just like you. I’ve overdone it on the stuff, but I miss that happy optimistic feeling that enshrouds Christmas until 12:01 a.m. on December 26, which luckily makes a rare but brief reappearance on December 31. However, the emotional minefield is December 26, 12:01 a.m. until December 30, 11:59 p.m. This is not only the time when our cultural pessimism and depression is at its height, but when we adults culturally trample past our accomplishments of the past weeks, years, and decades, only to dissect and examine our negligible and catastrophic failures over our lifetime. This is done in the name of becoming better people through our resolution to a changed life, which begins January 1, at midnight. It’s a wonder we haven’t collectively lobbied our government representatives to extend Christmas to one full week and skip January 1, all together. To be quite honest, the year in review is masochistic if you ask me. Nonetheless it’s ritual, a right of passage really, before one can properly bring in New Year. I’m just wondering if I have the stamina and bottomless whole of spirit in engage in such a ridiculous affair. I’m guessing, “Yes,” because I already miss Christmas and muscle memory is strong.