It's a truth, universally acknowledged, that Christmas is one of the most stressful times of the year. Vacation is a close second.

So ask me why we decided to go on vacation for Christmas. Go on... ask.

My answer: I have no idea.

I had a meltdown about five days before our scheduled departure. Not enough time, money, or cope were left in my storehouses. Gifts still needed to be bought, wrapped, cards mailed (well, the cards still had to be found. Apparently I hid them a little too well after buying them in January at 70% off), laundry done, clothes and food packed, and the house still had very few decorations up.

You know what? It all got done. Except those pesky cards never did turn up. I finally just wrote and printed a letter on the computer, ran a snowflake stamp wheel over the envelopes and mailed them.

Gift shopping was basically done. I recruited hubby to help with the food shopping. I was tired of making decisions. So I made him choose between carrots and green beans, fat-free Cool Whip or regular, and how many bricks of cream cheese to take. Because you just never know when you'll need to make some more dip. And how awful would it be to run out of cream cheese?

Yeah, I know. Not that bad. But in our holiday push for perfection, it was a possibility I just couldn't allow.

We took four 8 oz. packages of cream cheese with us. And brought two of them home. But if we hadn't had all four... well, I shudder to imagine the outcome.

There are two events I hate attending alone.

1) A wedding. I've done it. I won't do it again. There's just something so lonely about sitting in the midst of couples, watching two independent entities merge into one.

I know, never say never. I may end up alone at a wedding again some day. But I won't like it.

2) Holiday parties. It's not like we have a demanding social calendar that fills up in November. But because hubby does shift work, I often have to attend events alone on behalf of us both.

If I know the crowd, it's not a problem. And I've learned enough social skills to be able to carry on a conversation with a complete stranger (hint: Ask them questions. What do you do? Where did you grow up? will usually get the conversational ball rolling).

If I don't know many people, it's a little different. I usually end up in the corner, talking to the others who don't know anyone there. And it's great. I often learn new and fascinating things. I meet interesting people. And I end up having a good time.

In spite of myself.

I'm over the f-word. And a few others, too.

I read a lot. From 70-80 books per year. I read for pleasure, for instruction, for encouragement. I read inspirational, romance, mystery, suspense, humor. Even an occasional sci-fi/fantasy. Paranormal - not so much.

I read some books to write reviews of. I've noticed that more and more books (as well as movies and television, I know, but I'm talking books right now) need an "R" rating for language.

It's not that I don't know the words or what they mean. It's not that I've never said them... Actually, now that I think about it, I don't think I've ever said them, either. But that's not my point.

When I read profanity and vulgarities, it diminishes my respect for the writer and his/her imagination. Not to mention their vocabulary.

Believe me, it's possible to express anger and dismay without burning the ears of children and kittens.

Really, it is. I dare you to try it, oh Authors-who-shall-not-be-named.

We're kind of struggling with some issues in our family right now.

And I've been surprised to find that the ones I feel most comfortable sharing this with are the ones I've known for more than fifteen years. With one exception, everyone person I've talked to about this, I've known for 23 or more years.

I reflected on this and have come to a conclusion. I have no idea if it's right or valid or if a survey/study can prove its truth, but I'm running to the friends and family who knew me in the past.

Friends who watched our daughters grow up. Friends who observed our parenting. Who know who our family is.

Being empty nesters, we've made some recent friends who don't know our children. And they're missing a vital part of who we are, as people, as a couple, as parents.

I'm pretty sure this means something, but I have to think on it some more.

All marriages start with a little bit of fairy tale hope. True love, soul mates, happily ever after. And that's a good thing. Because if you don't believe it's forever, it's doomed before it begins. That's what I believe anyway.

But sometime after the, "I now pronounce you husband and wife," reality sets in.

Maybe he smashes wedding cake in her face when he promised he wouldn't.

Maybe she says something cutting on the honeymoon.

And when the wedding dress has been cleaned and put away, the presents are open and have to be cleaned/laundered/washed/dusted/maintained, and the argument over dusting or vacuuming first has been settled, it becomes apparent that the happily ever after... ain't so happy.

And there's a choice: Give up or step up.

We stepped up. Many couples do. Some step up for a time, then they forget that commitment and they give up. Sometimes the giving up comes after a year or five or thirty.

I recently read an article that said the dissatisfaction that used to be called "The Seven-Year Itch," is now occurring after five years.

We don't only nuke our food, now we nuke our marriages.

If you're thinking of giving up, don't. Trying stepping up. It's hard. It's messy. It's exhausting. But it's worth it.