December.

It was 55 degrees in Manhattan today and it doesn't feel like Christmas is only 24 days away. The tree sellers are already out on the sidewalks making long lines of green against the grey pavement, and it's nice to inhale deep the scent of pine you walk by. What is it about the smell of pine trees that makes me feel like a kid again? This will be my third Christmas in New York and the first year I won't have a tree. What is it about the lost memories of the past that pulls the holiday spirit of youth away from you? Perhaps it’s inevitable that after all this time the sound of Burl Ives humming from overhead speakers in the grocery store only ends up making me feel depressed.

The Rockefeller Center tree lighting is Wednesday. My first year here I tried to go see it, but like most things in this city the tourists ruined it, packing into the place well before 3PM making it impossible for locals to swing by six hours later – the time of the actual turning of the switch (I only live 20 blocks away!). Inevitably once 48th to 51st streets get lit, the rest of the city goes up in holiday flames as well, and there's no escaping it (and it doesn't help that my friend just got a job working weekends at this place of which I have strict instructions to visit on Saturdays anytime from 12-6).

It's only a matter of time before chestnuts roasting on a open fire will be painfully ingrained on my brain despite the fact that I’ve never actually roasted chestnuts before, on a fire or otherwise. And don't even get me started on The 12 Days of Christmas, the song nobody knows the lyrics to but insists on singing loudly regardless, coming in from other rooms just to shout fiiiiive goooold riiiiings (yeah, that's the only part I know too). The Salvation Army bell will now be ringing on every street corner, making me feel guiltier than ever with every cling-clang cling-clang about not wanting to give up what little Starbucks money I have left after rent. More people than ever will be crowding onto the subway with big shopping bags all getting in my way and reminding me that gifts and bags and boxes with bows aren’t nearly as important as people make them out to be. I'll send out Christmas cards to friends, needing to ask again for the new addresses of those who have sadly left Manhattan since last year, causing me to question why I'm still here...

And then it will snow. Sure, maybe sometimes all anybody needs to feel better about the approaching holiday and the amount of money they're going to have to spend on the people in their lives just to prove they care about them in this financial crisis, is a nice soft blanket of white – but I have a feeling that just won't work for me this year. Because once the snow lands in Manhattan it turns dirty fast, creating brown mountains on the sidewalks alongside the mountains of trash bags that pile up after the blizzard stops the garbage trucks from getting through. Quelle disaster.

No, it's 55 degrees in Manhattan today and the last thing in the world I want to think about is the approaching holiday and the ending of a year I can't help but feel I wasted. Maybe a miracle of George Bailey proportions will happen between now and the end of the month to change the way I feel - but I'm afraid I’m about as confident in that as I am in knowing what comes after a partridge in a pear tree.