Every year it’s more of the same.

We spend months in a state of stress and anticipation, so much so that we slowly become accustomed to such a lifestyle.

Our expectations warp to fit postage cutoffs and shortages of drinks.

We learn that it’s way too freaking late to DIY soaps in December, and that our wrapping is never going to live up to our Pinterest boards.

A free park is valued more than gold, and we begrudgingly purchase items that will be reduced in two weeks.

The Michael Buble memes are out in full force, and you silently panic because you haven’t watched Love Actually yet.

All storage spaces are now out-of-bounds, for they hold gifts we haven’t had the time to wrap.

Shopping centres put up the same decorations they’ve had for the last 30 years, which soon pale in comparison to the chaotic hoards of families lining up for Santa pictures.

Vacuuming daily becomes a thing, to combat the ever-shedding tinsel suffocating the house.

We attempt to write interesting messages on Christmas cards, which leads to the yearly scramble of hunting down addresses that were ‘put somewhere safe’.

We resist the urge to buy ALL of the chocolate, because deep down we know that ours grans and second cousins will soon be throwing a box of Favourites under the tree.

Everyone becomes unusually social. End of year burnout is coming in hot, and yet you can’t seem to have a single day to yourself without offending someone.

We drag ourselves out of our air-conditioned cocoons to weigh in on the yearly parade of ‘who’s got the best light display in town’.

At least three strangers implore on the electricity bills whilst we’re out.

Dietary restrictions go out the window.

We all lie about Santa being real.

The shops are out of turkeys for the third time this season.

The roll of sticky tape is lost – again.

We pretend we’re on the Great British Bake Off and nearly burn the house down with our poor attempts at gingerbread men.

The yearly self-exploration of “can I pull off red?” ends as swiftly as it begins. Nope, it’s still not your colour.

The big day rolls around. It’s everything you expected and more.

You spend the next 18 hours eating, drinking and partaking in weird conversations.

The family makes a big fuss about dressing up, only to abandon all attempts when the water pistols/cricket set/pool toys get brought out.

You’re in bed by 8pm, slipping into a delicious food coma that you will definitely regret in the morning.

It’s December 26. The countdown to next Christmas begins.

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December 2, 2019

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