Esther McCarthy: How to take a break from the norm this Twixmas
Esther McCarthy. Picture: Emily Quinn
When I first heard the term ‘Twixmas’ I genuinely thought it had something to do with the leftover chocolates in the Celebrations box, cause all the good ones had been eaten by Christmas day.
But no, this particular portmanteau refers to the gloriously lazy, hazy period of December 26 to Dec 30 – so we are slap bang in the middle of it right now, like little piggies in blankets.
Thinking about it, this could possibly be my favourite time of the year. These halcyon days lolling about on the sofa, a few days off work, blatantly lying to ourselves about new year’s resolutions.
“You heard it here first, family. I’m going to do... a triathlon!” you say, waving the turkey toastie to drive the point home.
They look skeptically at you because they had to help you untie your bra last night and when they did you all pretended not to notice the triangle of Toblerone lodged in there.
So unless the three activities in this triathlon of yours kicks off with a competitive stroll to the fridge, followed by a rigorous movie marathon, and into the final round of having a nice lie down, you’re fooling no-one.
Another time-honoured Twixmas activity is glaring menacingly at all the rubbish presents you got. Especially the bath bombs with glitter in them.
What they have effectively done is made your bath – or as you like to call it, Mummy’s watery wine emporium – into a place of shimmery stress.
You’re supposed to be relaxing. But you now have the fear of all that glitter making its way into your crevices. Your doctor will have to wear sunglasses at your next smear test.
You’ll emerge like a sad disco ball, and your husband will be still be picking little bits of silver out his pubes in February.
There’s only one thing for it – add it to the Project Regift pile, along with hand cream, slippers, and crap face mask. Unlucky Capricorns! They’re your problem now.
Another time honoured Twixmas tradition is Going For A Walk With the Family.
This has to be done every one of the six days between Christmas and New Year.
Bad weather? Suck it up. The dog’s foot pads are bleeding? He’ll survive. You’re in a wheelchair? Tough Tanora, we’re still going.
Twixmas air is stale, full of molecules of goose fat and Scots' Clan and chocolate Kimberleys.
Extra points if you manage to drive somewhere beachy for your walk. Sandblast the ungrateful wretches to within an inch of their lives, then throw them in the bath. HAHAHA!
Twixmas is also the perfect time to lean into the trend of wearing pyjamas. ALL of the time.
Did you scoff and roll your eyes at that girl in Spar wearing a onesie at 3pm? Well, shame on your flannel-covered bum.
PJs are the smart sartorial choice from now until New Year’s Eve, when you must force your flesh into that last sparkly dress to sit on the sofa and watch celebrities have a party that was filmed in June.
You can also use this period to watch all those glorious festive movies you missed in the run up to the big day because you were so busy pulling a miracle out of your backside to create a perfect Christmas with all the trimmings.
On Christmas Eve, as you laid your body gently under the tree, in the hope it would remind your walk-shy family, that you too are a gift, you may have caught bits of the Snowman out of the corner of your weary eye. But now is your time to binge, baby.
Commandeer the remote, watch ironically, pointing out all the bits that really didn’t age well and use it as a teaching moment for your sons not to harass their best friend’s new wife through the medium of cardboard.
Also remind them that if they ever become Taoiseach, under no circumstances are they to neg the canteen lady into thinking she is fat, then hunt her down and score with her in a room full of children.
This is also the time to catch up on your reading. You have a bundle of juicy titles your friends and book awards season have recommended, you may have even got some as gifts.
There used to be nothing you loved more than curling up with a book on the couch, a single Aero bar in hand, you’d make it last the whole book nibbling away, bubble by bubble.
Now somehow, you can’t seem to put your phone down and it demands you watch clips of misfortunates slipping on ice, or presenting you with creams promising to take your real face away, or sucking you into a thread about a white lady who complimented a black lady’s hair and can’t understand why she was called racist, and before you know it, days have passed and you haven’t read any of your books, and you’ve eaten a entire box of Ferrero Rocher, even the yokky dark ones, and you promised you’d been saving those as a bribe for after The Walk.
Happy Twixmas!
