You laughed until your ribs hurt. You danced badly. You ate the cake. You held someone’s hand a little too long.
In the northern hemisphere, it is the scent of cinnamon and clove battling the smell of wet wool coats. In the south, it is the sound of corks popping from bottles of crisp Sauvignon Blanc under a setting summer sun. Whether you celebrate Diwali, Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, the Winter Solstice, or simply the joy of a long weekend, the festive season is a universal paradox: it is the most exhausting and the most euphoric four weeks of the calendar. What makes this season magical is not the decorations, but the permission it grants us. For eleven months of the year, we are pragmatic creatures. We budget. We diet. We say “I’m too busy.” festive season
There is a peculiar shift in the air that no weather app can measure. One morning, you wake up to the usual grey of November or the sticky heat of July (depending on your hemisphere), and yet something is different. The coffee tastes the same. The commute is still a slog. But the frequency has changed. You laughed until your ribs hurt
But during the festive season, we willingly suspend reality. We stay up until 2 a.m. wrapping gifts in shapes that defy geometry. We drive forty-five minutes to see a single inflatable Santa on a neighbour’s roof. We eat carbs without apology. You held someone’s hand a little too long