something comforting about this routine

I'm wearing a plaid shirt with a toothpaste stain on the front. This morning, I ate two over-easy eggs on a bed of leftover cornbread-and-sausage-and-pecan stuffing. The sideboards and bookcases have been decorated with white lights and holly that I hacked from the bushes in the front yard. In the last three days, I have been hungover, eaten pizza for three meals, gone to see a band that didn't take the stage until midnight, made pecan pie, and cleaned out my work inbox.

OH, END OF THE SEMESTER, I LOVE YOU.

Ahem. Yes. The semester is over! Just like 2008, I have entered all the final grades (although, ha ha, remember only teaching three courses? HA HA HA HILARIOUS). Just like 2009, I have been wearing final pants! Just like 2010, I will miss my class. Just like 2011, it's fairly warm out. Just like 2012, lives go on, even with the surprises of the last week and the unexpected wheels that fell off right at the very end. There's something comforting about this routine, realizing that every December is sort of the same, whether we live and teach in Minnesota or Michigan or Georgia.

And just like 2006, we had a holiday party on a Sunday. I dragged the outdoor furniture inside, covered everything that didn't match (ed note: all of it) with white tablecloths, threw a Belgian-ale brisket into the oven, and turned up the Christmas music. The guests brought potatoes, so many potatoes, and the dogs wore sweaters, and we drank growlers and talked about "The Christmas Shoes," which, in case you forgot, is the worst.

(Unlike 2006, I did not end up on the kitchen floor, wearing cookies for eyes, and we did not trek outside to make a snowman and use frozen dog turds for eyeballs. ADULT.)

Before we sat to eat, around our lumpy table, I asked people to raise their glasses in a toast: To the holidays. Whatever they may bring, at least we have tonight. And then we clinked our glasses, and laughed, and this too was like old times.

It's a good life.