The Ghost of Many, Many Christmases Past

No, no, that’s not my ride to Logansport…..though had this moving van not materialized, I may well have ended up there…
Today is the fourth anniversary of my escape. No more “You can’t You won’t You shouldn’t You never You don’t.” No more “isn’t that right?” No more rages, death threats, financial threats, daily grading of my behavior (you get a C- for…), vilification for my choice of Christmas cards (not “Christmas-y enough), criticism for having too many hobbies, being too lazy or being too ambitious, too fat, too thin, too blond, too brunette……..living with such a Sybil was giving me psychological whiplash. Who was I, anyway?

This was going to be my best Christmas in over a decade. Attention had to be paid. Cartwheels across the lawn seemed too fleeting, and mid-afternoon would be too early in the day to drink myself into a happy stupor. Hmmm. What to do, what to do. A plan was hatched.

The day was endless. The Dip tried to ignore the movers as they worked around him. He hunched over his computer keyboard, playing chess, until they pried the mouse out of his fingers. I occupied myself with laundry, figuring it might be bad form to carry his clothes out or pop the cork before the door closed.

The photo op took place shortly after MK finished work for the day. She called my cell and I casually walked out.

No one needed to tell me Say Cheese!