Happy December! I proclaimed, evidencing both my December delight and my ingrained enthusiasm for beginnings.
Each December day is like opening the tiny cardboard panel on my advent calendar to discover some unknown surprise. A card with glittery red cardinals from a longtime friend. The scent of pine upon entering an office. The smoothness of the delicate handle on china cup covered with holly, reserved for use solely during these 31 days.
It is the month I celebrate my birth, and the world lights up to celebrate with me. I will ooh and aah over colorful lights strung across porches of humble homes and at the extravagant displays of shining stars throughout the city. I’ll admire every bit of gold, silver, and red in sight.
I will eat. Birthday cake of course. But also toffee delivered in a cream colored box from Chicago, the tin of cheesy popcorn arriving from Kansas City, the Dutch pastry filled with marzipan found only in Sioux Center. Heartfelt toasts of bubbly will abound.
I will wear my red winter boots no matter the temperature. Any vintage sweater with a bit of fur trim is game for all days of the week no matter what is on my schedule. Red from my wardrobe has permission to be worn on any Wednesday no matter how ordinary.