The (very merry) twelve days of May

I’m addicted to holidays.

That’s the first step, right? Admitting you have an addiction…

I think, though, that in order to overcome an addiction, you have to want to change, and I don’t want to. I am at peace with my addiction.

I love everything about holidays. I love the insta-happiness I feel when I wake up on those magical mornings. I’m not just talking about Christmas, here, either. When I wake up on Halloween and the Fourth of July and St. Patrick’s Day, I am giddy.

Who doesn’t love candy (especially the cinnamon hearts at Valentine’s day)? And fireworks? And wearing green?

On Earth Day, my sister even paid a tribute to me on her blog. I felt so honored. It was like a little Earth Day present. Which rhymes with Birthday, the very fabulous day on which you also get presents (!!)…that brings me to my next point.

This year, my family missed my half birthday. Last year, my brother Duke remembered to get me a present, and this year, no one even noticed the day had come. Freshman year of college, my mom sent me a half birthday care package. This year? Not even a call.

But I am ok. I definitely survived. I think part of the reason I pulled through was because I knew that St. Patrick’s Day was so close. It gave me something to live for. I also think that maybe some people might have forgotten it because I might have forgotten theirs too. I’m definitely sending gifts next year; the mistake won’t happen again.

Another not so official holiday, but one that I think is definitely in the making, is what I like to call the Twelve Days of May.

The twelve days of May was kick-started when my brothers received their tax-refund check in the mail. It had begun.

Over the next few days (approximately twelve) everyone in my family began to receive their checks too. The little Post Office elves would sneak onto our porch and slip the gifts into the mailbox, pausing only for a second to make sure we hadn’t left them any treats.

We can get online and track our checks just like we can track Santa.

First, I got a very small one (about $1.54); I like to call that my stocking. It made me happy to know that the government was thinking of me, but it was merely a preview of the next gift to come, wrapped in a beautiful envelope and decorated with a perfectly placed stamp.

Soon, another check came in the mail, luckily a little more substantial. When I opened it, I had an idea as to what it might be, but I didn’t know exactly what the government gave me. As the numbers danced before my eyes, I saw a year of fun with this money. A CD? The stock market? The mall? Where would this gift take me?

Finally, the last check came in the mail, and as I opened it, I was happy to see the numbers, but sad that the season was over so soon. It would be another year before it came around again.

I knew that this year I’d been a good girl. I had worked hard and stayed off the naughty list. So, just as we’d shout, “Thank you, Santa!” when we were young, I thanked the government. I knew I had earned the gifts, but I still wanted them to know that I was grateful. I don’t want any coal in my envelope next May!