It’s Hibernation Season, Baby

Featured Image: The Late, Great Charlie taking a deep slumber.

It wasn’t always like this. The holiday season was usually a time for unrestricted enthusiasm, and while I can’t pinpoint when it all started going downhill, I assume it was sometime in high school. It wasn’t directly after the realization that Santa Claus isn’t real because Christmas still meant new stuff and I didn’t care who it came from, but it was definitely around the time I realized that Thanksgiving was a coverup for the genocide of Native Americans. And, of course, the slowing down of toys for presents (I got a weighted blanket last year, and even though it’s amazing, it’s no Barbie Dreamhouse™) was also a factor.

Halloween, in particular, was always a big favorite of mine; as a lover of candy and dressing up, you could not have made a better holiday for me. Absolutely nothing will ever compare to the feeling of getting back to the house with your friends, your dads staying in the driveway to have a beer, and pouring out all your candy on the floor to start swapping — I hated tootsie rolls but liked butterfingers, so there were always trades to be made.

Even after childhood, the holiday season was only mildly depressing, and even with my seasonal depression, it still wasn’t that bad. But then in 2016 (you know what I’m talking about) the winter season was ruined forever for me. That trauma, along with being left for another girl around the same time, has left me with a great distaste for the time after Halloween to somewhere between Valentine’s Day (the worst) and St. Patrick’s Day (when things start to turn around seasonally with outdoor drinking).

Then there’s this year. I don’t even know what I’m going to feel (I’ll let you know at least in part what I’ll be feeling after the results). But my favorite of all favorites, Halloween, is just not going to be the same. I can dress as slutty as I want, but I’ll be damned to hell (possibly literally) if I swap spit with anyone. And Thanksgiving-Eve (another favorite) is certainly canceled– nothing like 60 of your least-liked high school peers all packed in a tiny towny bar to give you a deadly virus. Thanksgiving and Christmas are up in the air for my family in whether or not we will see my Nana and Grandma (and as much as I would like to see them, I don’t want to see them.) I actually haven’t thought about New Years’ Eve yet but I am notorious for having a terrible time on New Years’ anyways, so it really shouldn’t be all that different this year.

Valentine’s day, which last year I spent getting a pap smear and will likely result in another if I schedule it perfectly, and St. Patricks day are likely busts, too, as the vaccine will take until, allegedly, well into next summer to get herd immunity. I also heard on the news that we will likely be wearing masks into 2022.

So what should we do? Probably just sleep. We should get real fat by stress-eating, curl up with a good book, and then just hibernate our way to a vaccine. Trying to make things “normal” has really backfired. So, let’s just call it a year, skip the entire holiday season, and come back out for Hot Girl Summer 2021. I’ll make sure to throw a party and make t-shirts that say “I Survived The 2020 Plague”

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