It’s my turn to write the holiday letter. It’s been my turn to write the holiday letter for a while, which means that we haven’t sent out cards for at least a year, and possibly two. I’d say three, but I think we might have sent out change-of-address cards three seasons ago. Or was that four? I forget.
We’ve moved so often that people tend to wait to send us cards until they’ve gotten one from us. Because we’ve moved so often, there have been years that we didn’t send cards out until, uhm, July.
Yes, it is kind of weird to be spending the third holiday season in a row living in the same house. Or fourth. Okay, it’s even weirder to me to realize that I’m not sure if it’s the third or fourth. I haven’t been this address-stable for nearly a quarter-century.
I was just informed that it’s the fourth year here.
I hate writing holiday letters. Receiving them? No. I enjoy reading them. I’m also generally in awe of people who can whip one up without agonizing over what to mention and what not to mention and how to phrase what’s said. And yeah, also have the chutzpah to put themselves out there like they’re the best thing since honey apple oatmeal French toast — or, conversely, living the lives of Dickens characters with no happy ending in sight. I just … aagh!
We haven’t moved! I don’t know what to write about!