I'd like to eliminate December. It's a month of dry skin, sore throats, open houses, forced festivity, cards from those who've dented my car, wrecked my hair and erratically delivered the newspaper to remind me it's time to tip them. December starts earlier each year, with decorations, traffic snarls and overcrowded stores starting in November.
It's a month of junk mail, catalogs featuring costumes for the dog and tiny boxes of chocolate truffles for $325. Mixed in are those annual, holiday letters from people who would no longer recognize you on the street that begin by thanking the Lord for another good year, everyone is fine, “give or take a few aches and pains, but what else can we expect at our age?” Using festive fonts and colors, it goes into tales about trips to Graceland and Las Vegas, what's been added to their homes and builds to boasting about Kate's backhand and Alexander's academic achievements.
If only December could go into the Spam folder.
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