How I Lost My Spirit on New Year’s Day

Probably the best thing about the holidays is the free time to do whatever the heck you want.

Like this is my life but go with it, okay?

I mean, there’s no school, no work (for those lucky enough to not have to work during the holidays, I mean I used to work during the holidays and I didn’t hate it but there is something to be said for not having to be anywhere for at least a day or two because of a holiday, amiright?), no something to do.

Except if you have a spouse and kids and a house and still have to do all the chores that life has to offer, isn’t life so generous with all it has to offer, especially in the chores realm?

Well, in fact I like to keep up with chores and stuff and try not to let it get ahead of me lest I completely lose my mind since I like order and cleanliness and whatnot, so some of that whatever the heck you want to do stuff includes laundry and cooking dinner and taking out the trash but I like not having to do that stuff on a timeline, and if I decide to cook dinner at 2 pm or cook three dinners in one day or start vacuuming in the evening because I can, I’m for it. And if I want to bag it all and just go to the movies instead, hey man that’s cool too.

Anyhoo, one of the best things to do is waste away the first day of the year every year by drinking mimosas, watching garbage TV and lounging around.

That’s usually on the menu for New Year’s Day in our house, but for some inexplicable reason this year, my family members had specific plans that included going out of the house.

Which is not at all in line with the spirit of New Year’s, and I was deeply offended by their industry. So of course I took my wasteland day a step further and vowed that I would wear pajamas all day.

Now I know what you are thinking – Big Deal. People (non-babies) wear pajamas all day every day, what’s so special about that? Check out any Walmart or grocery store or Walmart grocery store and there will be a lady in there wearing her pj bottoms, dirty slippers and carrying some sort of Coach accessory. By the way, let’s stop pretending that Coach is some sort of exclusive designer brand. How can it be if every pajama-wearing lady in Walmart is swinging around a Coach wristlet? I’m not trying to disrespect Coach or pajama-wearing ladies, but let’s be real. Sell Coach at Walmart already.

By the end of mid-morning I was loving life. PJ day is for me, I thought to myself. I chose the correct pair to wear all day: not too heavy or light, and even added a lightweight robe to snuggle in and brand-new fuzzy socks. I munched a square of breakfast casserole and drank some coffee, poured a mimosa in celebration, and shared a picture of my triumphant plan on Facebook.

Feelin' good at 11:45

At noon – three mimosas o’clock – I got up to stretch and waddled out to the kitchen to stir the pork and sauerkraut, our dinner that evening and my one superstition. My husband had returned with our daughter from a sleepover and I hugged her hello. She disappeared to her room to unpack and take a nap before basketball practice. My son and husband started discussing their activities for the afternoon, shopping and other vagaries that interested me little. I grabbed some leftover Christmas cookies and a fresh cup of coffee and settled back on the couch. I was beginning to feel slightly filmy but ignored the creeping discomfort.

By two I had to tap into my resolve to stay clothed in last night’s sleepwear. I felt gross and my hair was sliding off my head. I dug in and closed my eyes in the hope that I would fall asleep. Naps make time go faster.

Four pm. I was making mashed potatoes for our dinner and found myself fantasizing about scrubbing the filth off me using a Brillo pad.

By 6:30 I wanted to die.

After dinner and clean up I was so sweaty and gross that a record must have been broken. Running upstairs to the shower, I warned my family that I would be gone for some time and reveled in scalding hot water for longer than is probably medically advised.

I slipped on a fresh pair of pjs and joined my husband in the basement for some post-New Year’s TV and wine.

He asked me how my pajama day went, and I cried a little. It’s hard, I whimpered. I don’t know how people do it.

All I know is that I can’t. Not ever; not again.

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