Okay, well it did snow. It turned icy and black midway through the morning, started dumping, and it never stopped. We have already clocked one snowstorm, but this was our first truly frigid one. The day reminded me of the time I wrote the essay about being Francis McDourmand. I still feel like her in the cold.

A little weather did not stop my plans to venture down the hill to begin Christmas celebrating with my mother. We hit all the stores we knew would be playing Christmas tunes already, popped into Starbucks for holiday flavors in red cups, and stocked up on supplies for my finalized Advent calendar. I even listened to Bing Crosby on the drive home, carefully navigating our snow packed roads, and I didn’t feel sorry. Trevor hates Christmas before Thanksgiving, and generally, I can get behind the benefits of delayed gratification; but this year, I feel like we need it. And more and more I realize: there is no sense in putting off joy.