You know you’ve hit rock bottom at Christmas when you’re sitting in traffic envisioning yourself in a full body cast in a private room at the hospital and that sounds like a spa day. All of the sudden, visions of a private room, a remote control, and morphine on demand dances in your head.
You know you’ve hit rock bottom at Christmas when you find yourself in the parking lot of a Tuesday Morning contemplating the name of a Smiths cover band called Tuesday Mourning while wondering why you waited this long to buy the perfect gift for your parents. The two people responsible for putting you on this planet and you plan on rewarding them with a picture frame and a scented candle.
But then your spirits are lifted. You overhear the couple standing in line behind you, armchair quarterbacking the holiday family function they just left. “Why didn’t you say anything”? “I was waiting for you to say something.” As you patiently wait with your shopping basket filled with last-minute offerings layered with guilt, you console yourself with the scene from Female Trouble where Dawn Davenport takes down the Christmas tree because Santa opted for a pair of sensible shoes in lieu of the cha cha heels she requested.
And all was right with the world.