The inner festivities of off-season: A tradition of being unemployed at Christmas

December is my busy season. When things are winding down, I am winding up. Not only is the year coming to a close, but I have a habit of taking contracts that wrap up in November. You might say this is the perfect opportunity to take a mental vacation, or vegetate to the point of being mistaken for a compost heap, fertilizing future strength with present inactivity. But without a clear indication of where my life is headed, I like to set the table for an extravagant existential crisis that takes place over an infinite number of decadent courses. A smorgasbord of familiar flavours that land heavily on a stomach already nauseous from the jarring motion of self-esteem.

There's a special thing that happens when I lose my sense of purpose and come to realize what I've been anchoring my identity to. Each day forth is an advent calendar of deepening disembodiment. First day? A delicious freedom for which my taste buds will never tire! Seventeenth day? A pocket mirror forcing me to confront every inch of myself that is not currently contributing to society. Thankfully, I don't have to disturb my rumination to pick up one of these goody bags from the local grocer. They are delivered under the fall of night like bad dreams or gifts from Santa, whose existence feels more tangible than my own.

Speaking of gifts, shopping is a huge time-suck to muscle through as the clock of mortality ticks behind every breath. I can't just buy pleasant interactions in bulk and expect them to fit inside the hearts and minds of friends and family alike. The people in my life need thoughtful tokens that are tailored to their perception of our relationship. Compared to a few weeks ago, my post-purpose self has a very different opinion of what these are. Do I give my parents sweet sincerity that masks my frustrations with them, or save the sugar-coating for someone who won't be able to smell my underlying bullshit? Do I give my old coworker the illusion that time-off is all it's cracked up to be, or the truth that I have the hourly sensation of free-falling without a parachute? Do I give a new acquaintance a light sketch of my professional background, or a harsh depiction of my immediate circumstances that overshadow any concept of success I've had and will hopefully have again? In essence, do I skip the bells and whistles, the indulgences, and offer the more utilitarian items? Without a steady stream of incoming fulfillment, my resources are limited and I can't be spending energy arbitrarily.

Talking to others isn't the reason I'm fried at the end of each day. I welcome the opportunity to interrupt my inner dialogue and use conversation as it was originally intended. The drain comes from inadequate time management. Of course we're all busy, but where you might have "back-to-back meetings before heading out-of-office," or, "tree decorating at my mom's/step-mom's/in-laws'/lonely-single-friend's houses," I am trying to untangle a string of time-wasters. Do I run errands, come home and clean, read that incredibly long New York Mag article on 'nepo babies', then write, when I've missed my peak productivity window? Or write, clean, read the article, fall down an Instagram rabbit hole that somehow starts and ends with Maya Hawke, and then run errands when it will be rush hour? Trick question, because I didn't factor in the 47 minutes I will spend trying to decide which sequence of events is more efficient. I typically put my boots on and take them off a few times to remind myself that I am the driver of this sleigh, goddammit, and (sadly) answer to no one.

In the dizzying hoopla of festivities, I eventually realize it is important to stop and take stock of what it’s really about... (picture Linus taking centre stage with his security blanket)...*Ahem* "Pretending everything is fine." (Applause) Everyone tries to tell us that time-off is about "rest, relaxation, and recharging," but they have been corrupted by commercialism to purchase candles and other dressings of self-care. Underneath all the excessive fretting and decorative busyness is the least materialistic gift of all: delusion. I don’t need to spend a dime to get a coping mechanism that my psyche supplies naturally. I wish tradition could save me from the overwhelm, but my memory gets worse by the year. Much like the Grinch, I don't understand the true meaning of time-off until the day before resuming work. This is after I have left a trail of destruction so pervasive, scientists would say my nervous system resembles that of a tortured animal (without any of the sympathy because it is self-inflicted). So with the jingling of keys as someone with a real schedule strides toward a discernible destination, I bow my head in guilty gratitude to be so uncomfortably free. For a moment, the ever-present scents of pine and cinnamon awaken my senses to the joy I have neglected. I crack a walnut betwixt my idle hands and savour the nourishment I neither hunted nor gathered, but paid for at an inflated cost. I take in the snowcapped streetlights, quietly wishing they lined the view of my path into January. I bake cookies while Elf plays in the background — abandoning it halfway through to update my resume again and send out seven emails because Buddy is suddenly a cautionary tale. Am I expecting a job to just magically appear under my tree because I spread cheer this year?! This gust of worry blows in and flips the pages of my calendar with unsettling speed. My heart shrivels like a cranberry and my hopes drop like dry needles from a Douglas Fir. I don't know how much longer it will take to resurrect my professional personhood this year ‘round, but what I do know for sure is that next year I intend to make a new tradition.