The poinsettias have faded. The snow is gone, eaten by a January rain. All that remains of the Christmas chocolates are their foil skins. The fridge smells of something forgotten. Lights that looked so pretty against snowy porches are now more like gaudy arcade windows. The novelty of sleeping in has been replaced by atrophied muscles. Welcome to the new year. The holiday is book-ended by the backward glance of Christmas and New Year's looking ahead. This is the melancholy I feel when looking at Christmas decorations past their due date and the sad deconstruction that waits. It always feels like a surgical autopsy or something to me.

I don't think working through the holiday lessened the effect. I'm not really sure how I am going to integrate back into society. Getting up for work, catching street cars, going outside despite the weather, getting on with house hold chores, not having an afternoon nap or an evening drink. Normalcy takes a back seat for a couple of weeks, but now that's at an end. Back to the stream of working life. Maybe that's it? Maybe I just don't like work enough to look forward to going back to it? Sounds 'bout right. The pattern of Christmas makes it hard to tell them apart. Last year we had a lot of guests, and it was our first Christmas in the house so it had its memorable moments. This year, despite the hubbub of people coming and going (including a walking Gina) I'm going to remember a quiet moment, sitting on the couch eating a chocolate, the cat asleep in the chair, and Angela joining me watching the Philadelphia Story. The smell of the tree and the quiet of the house was very satisfying.

Excuse all of this nostlag-errhia. I may not be so affected if the sun might come out for a few minutes. Note: take more vitamin D and B12.