For the first time since I moved, I'm staying home for Christmas. It's my gift to me. No 800 mile odyssey, not getting stuck in snow for days unable to get home if coming from the north or in traffic in that miserable abomination known as Las Vegas (my friends seldom want to see the Grand Canyon or Zion- they want to meet in Vegas, which I loathe). No air mattress that leaks to soggy over the course of the night, no broken bedsprings poking me in the ribs. No heaters turned down too low, no lack of blankets, no overcooked turkey, no boomerang all over southern California in it's ungodly traffic to ferry elderly relatives around. No tea strength coffee prepared by the people we're staying with, no baby poop and barf stories while I'm eating ("oh, but it's so cute- once you have babies you'll be immune, oh and by the way the baby's poop is green right now and how's the turkey? Is it moist enough?") No enthroned new mother milking herself with the milking machine at the dinner table. No reproachful complaints that even though I'm only home about 8 months a year that we don't see family enough. No trying to slip away through more traffic to meet friends at the loud crowded impossible to park place they chose to meet at...I could go on and on.
Instead it's me making Oaxacan black mole in my own kitchen, moonlight on the snow coming through the windows in a house where I control the thermostat, not going anywhere and sleeping in my own comfy bed. This is my gift to me this year.