So. I fell asleep at 10:30 on Friday night and didn’t wake up again until 7:30 on Saturday morning, which is pretty much unheard of around these parts, and come Saturday I was filled with the vim, vigour, and holiday cheer of a mother whose newborn just slept through the night for the first time. At least, that’s how I expect that feels, having had no direct exposure to that particular experience myself, but I will consider it sufficient to say that I was so well-rested that it bordered on the sublime.
There was much discussion on the subject of boots (the warm but incredibly slippy ones, or my hiking boots, which offer lots of traction but not much in the way of warmth?) and very little discussion on the subject of headgear (sock monkey hat, obviously) and we first went out for a fortifying breakfast, where I consumed blueberry pancakes and we enjoyed watching the little girl at the table next to us, who had obviously just come from dance class, or was otherwise just celebrating a Saturday morning in the way in which it was intended (i.e. by wearing the sparkliest of all pink tutus).
We drove out to the tree farm, tromped around in the snow for a while, discussed how it was the Perfect Weather for Searching for the Perfect Tree (sunny, cold-but-not-TOO-cold, just enough of a breeze to blow the fragrant air around us but not so windy ), breathed in the pine-scented air, glanced smugly and dismissively at all of the inferior trees, and eventually stumbled across The Perfect Tree. And lo, it really was perfect, both tall and fat and with branches all the way to the bottom, and it was, as they say, a Christmas miracle. In a matter of moments, it was chopped, shaken, bagged, and paid for, and it is now sitting in our living room, all festive and whatnot, so copiously laden with ornaments and lights that they seem to be dripping from every little limb, and I have a feeling that this will be a very merry Christmas indeed.