No way around it: 2020 was a shitshow. And while I don’t even want to glance at it in the rearview mirror, I’m not holding my breath that 2021 will be any better, at least not the first half of it. I have hopes that we’ll reach the apex and quickly enter the denouement by mid-year, and can start a whole new story then.
I have selfish motivations. The Spouse Thingy and I both turn 60 next year, and celebrate our 40th, and it would be nice to be able to actually do something, go somewhere, before the end of the year.
I’ll settle for no one else I know dying. No one else getting sick.
There were the bright spots, intentional attempts at bringing some light into the house.
We decorated for Christmas, a little more than usual. We rearranged the house, swapping my office and the front room, which had turned into a gym of sorts. Having that space to put the big tree in, and the other little touches, made it nicer. And we put the Whovimas tree in the living room, mostly for Max…even though he’s no longer here. It felt important, and a bit final. I don’t know that I’ll ever do another one.
I wasn’t even sure I’d feel like watching the Doctor Who New Year’s special without Max this year. But then the Who marathon on BBCA began and I tuned in to see how it would settle…and I kept watching. And now I’m looking forward to it, almost as much as I was before.
We took down all the decorations this week, and when they were packed away and ready to be taken to storage, I pulled away from the wall these boxes we stacked to place a decorative polar bear on, boxes originally crafted to give Max a step up and a good view out the window. I had the vacuum in hand, going after wayward tree needles, and I’m damned glad I looked first, because waiting for me was a tuft of his fur.
I vacuumed there before we decorated. I wasn’t there before Thanksgiving.
It felt like a gift, one given enough time after his death that instead of making me cry, it made me very, very happy.
We have tufts of Dusty’s fur and tufts of Hank’s, and in the back of my head was the notion I would get some from Max and Buddah when the time came, but it didn’t happen. My only regret now is that we don’t have any of Buddah’s.
I should look under my bed. He hid there for a bit. There's a slim chance...
I miss those monsters.
So, definitely, I’m glad to be done with 2020, even if it is
an artificial social construct tied around a calendar. It marks one of the worst years ever, and I'm done.
I had things I wanted to accomplish this year that fell by the wayside—no regrets because that was time spent caring for Max and Buddah, and I wouldn’t trade that—but I’d like to get to them this year.
2300+ miles biked. I hit 2100 this year but given that I basically stopped riding in October and didn't get as many in before that as I intended, I could have done more.
A book or two written. Don't even ask me how many I did this year; I know for sure two, might have been three, but my brain is mush.
At least two charity events (though I’ll be surprised if St.
Baldrick’s is even held this year, it might be virtual) even if it means doing them on my own.
Milestones celebrated. We don't usually celebrate our anniversary since it's so close to Christmas, but 40 years feels important. It deserves celebration. In Disneyland, with the kids, even if we do it early.
And I desperately want to hug my son, my daughter in law, my mother in law, and my friends.
I just want the world to be okay in 2021.
I think we all deserve that.