This weekend’s planned trip to Pennsylvania was hastily aborted by the region’s first real snow storm in years. So we will not be driving south to celebrate the holidays with my family, though we are leaving next week for France to celebrate Christmas proper with Mr. Pinault’s family and to ski, eat, drink, and luxuriate (guiltily, on my part) in the Alps.
The snowstorm that is currently pummeling the Mid-Atlantic (and is expected to move into Boston tonight) came out of nowhere; the weather reports were clear until Friday morning, and then Mr. Pinault and I began Skype-ing back and forth about the fate of our planned journey. Maybe we could leave late Friday night and make the whole 7-hour trip overnight, and then return on Sunday night when the roads should be cleared. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe it would be a nightmare. After scrutinizing the radars, the weather maps, and the increasingly dire news stories that warned of anywhere from 6-12 inches of snow, we had a “Go or No Go” meeting (a term culled from software development process, when everyone gets together and decides if the software is ready to be released… an event so token they are nicknamed “Go or Go” meetings.”) And we decided this weekend’s trip to Pennsylvania was a No Go.
Now I gaze at the pile of Christmas presents so carefully accumulated for my family and friends with unerring sadness. The assortment of gift bags sits in my living room, destined to remain unopened by their recipients over the holiday. And within my heart, a little packet of holiday cheer stagnates, unable to be expressed, unwrapped, and revealed to my loved ones. Boo hoo.
My Yankee Candle flavor of choice this year was “Home for the Holidays,” and the irony, well, it burns. Perhaps they should manufacture a “French Alps for the Holidays” candle that smells of molten raclette cheese and smelly ski boots.
