They don’t call it the silly season for nothing, folks. Now is about the time of year when all of those grandiose plans I had for knitting and/or baking festive gifts for everyone I’ve ever met (Tell me I’m not the only one.) start to feel kind of misguided, oppressive, stifling even—and then, as I am wont to do, I rebel. I decide that Christmas is for suckers and I’d much rather skip the country for a while to avoid the stress and expectation of the season completely than to knit one more stitch.
But a little balance, I suppose, is in order. I love to make things, you see, and I especially love sharing them with people I care about. These two passions combine at gift-giving time to make me the Best Gift Giver Ever (BGGE). Yes, it’s true, there’s fame and glory attached to the title, but not a small amount of pressure. And some days, like today, I resent and resist the title. I feign ignorance and a British accent (‘Oh, I’m not the Best Gift Giver Ever, no no; merely the Best Gift Giver Sometimes.’), but it’s no use. In my heart of hearts I will always want to give the best gifts ever, just like I will always harbour a desire to cushion my loved ones in any and every knitted object they could ever want.
But, sometimes, yes Sometimes, even the BGGE can be human, and decide that rather than crafting furiously into the night she will instead have fruit for dinner, and make the potato salad that makes her happy, and just generally be mentally far far away from anywhere where it could possibly be almost Christmas.