It couldn’t have come at a better time: the last day of work before Christmas break. I had been dreading the onset of Christmas for months. Since September 9th, to be exact. The day my wife left me for reasons I still doesn’t fully understand. “I don’t love you anymore.” That was the only reason gave. I guess, in some ways, that’s as good a reason as any. But shouldn’t there be specifics to back such a statement up? Then again, it could be the English teacher in me always stressing the need to back up any opinion with concrete examples or evidence. She did not.
Deep down, despite all the doubts, second-guessing and flat-out denial, I knew the real reason she was leaving me: I’m boring. Plain yogurt boring. And in all probability, she decided it was time for some fruit on the bottom.
The weeks leading up to Christmas were rough, despite the fact that I was staying busy. I regretted putting decorations up – especially a tree. It would have been one thing if I had an artificial tree, but I bought a real tree, thinking that it would somehow be therapeutic to decorate the house in an effort to simultaneously move on and keep things status quo. In reality, decorating actually had the reverse effect, turning my house (which I decertified as a home after she left) into a gallery of ghosts of Christmas past everywhere I turned.
I had recently put my house up for sale and as far as I was concerned, I couldn’t sell it fast enough. As long I remained living there, it felt like I was living on the set of a play in which I had once co-starred in, but now sat empty behind closed curtains until the crew tore it down in preparation of the next show.