Ahh. The Holidays.

Ahh. The holidays. They seem to show up, whether you like it or not. Kind of like death and taxes, except a bit more festive. Theoretically.

This past week, no matter how thick and dark the cloud cover (oh, yeah, and the weather sucked too), the promise of good tidings peppered every chance encounter. The endless refrain of "Happy Passovers" and "Happy Easters"  (and generic "happy holidays" when things just aren't all that obvious) couldn't help but add a few molecules of optimism to the tired March air. Thoughts of matzoh balls and gefilte fish and several portions too many of my friend's butter drenched lemon chicken lifted my spirits all week. And all those glasses of wine, of course, because it's part of the ritual, and you never want to seem as if you're not taking the holiday seriously.

Ahh. The holidays. The anticipation, the rituals, the heartburn (oh, yeah, and the food can take its toll too). We look forward to them, and we should. Family, friends, too much food, too much to drink. The holidays allow us to take a breath, to catch up, to reflect. The holidays force us to take a breath, to catch up, to reflect. If it were easy, or uncomplicated, what would be the point?

A few months ago, when we rang in 2018, I toasted the new year with a touch of added enthusiasm. "Eighteen." "Chai," in Hebrew (not to be confused with the tea), the number eighteen, the symbol for life. The year of "chai," a nice change of pace from 2017, which had certainly had its share of surreal moments. Good ones, too, great ones even. But surreal seemed a pervasive theme.

All right, so a few months into it, and my optimism in certain respects may have been a bit premature, but I have also been blessed with  a few sweet surprises. As I sit here now, bloated and exhausted with a post-Seder hangover, I'm thinking "lighten up, Frances," life is good. Yes, the holidays arrived with the usual juggle of family and old wounds and new wounds and melancholy thoughts about the irony of how time flies even when the Seder itself seems to last an eternity. I wonder if it's possible to make everything else slow down and still get to dessert more quickly.

In this year of "chai," or "life," as in any year, we can't have it both ways. Time won't stand still, and the Passover story won't get any shorter. Life just doesn't seem to work like that, even in the extra special year of "chai." No, we can't have it both ways, but we can have it all; in fact, we are stuck with it all. The good, the bad, the high and the hangover. Or the afterglow, if you are able to look at it that way.

No graduation goggles or rose colored classes for me, or anything else that might warp my view of reality -- wine notwithstanding. Today, like all days, will be a mixed bag, complicated, as holidays are, by a few extra moving pieces. There will be petty annoyances and unexpected pleasures, as there should be. And, with a little bit of coffee and maybe an antacid or two,  I'll be armed and ready for yet another day of surprises -- just another day in the (year of) life.