the edge.

a song to set the scene // the edge of glory by lady gaga

The first time I ever read about edging was likely in a Cosmopolitan article.

A naiive curious young woman, I was no doubt peeking out from under my covers when I was supposed to be sleeping, absorbing all I could about this exciting new world and all of the experiences I had yet to be involved in.

Edging is described as the point just before orgasm, involving cycles of increasing sexual stimulation and then stopping just before…

The finale.

So it came as a surprise to me the other day when my gem told me that I was edging.

No, we weren’t in the bedroom or anywhere remotely close to being frisky, so you can imagine the look of shock I gave him when he used the word edging to describe how I was waiting until the very last possible second where I could no longer keep the heavy weight of my eyelids from closing.

Yes, I was doing all I could not to succumb to a nap, waiting instead until I couldn’t possibly bear another second with my eyes open.

Strangely, the word fit.

Within days, I experienced another moment of edging.

Again, I wasn’t in the bedroom or anywhere remotely close to being frisky.

This time, I was holding in pee.

(Yes I know this isn’t good for you)

I was at home, doing chores, basically everything else under the sun save for using the restroom when all of a sudden, I realized I couldn’t wait any longer. The urge was too strong.

So I’m on my way to the bathroom, am but a few feet away from the porcelain throne when all of a sudden, I sneeze.

Do you ever squeeze your knees when you sneeze? The jingle from the radio about uncontrollable leaks sang through my head.

Well, I squeezed when I sneezed and unfortunately I peeds.

Yep, you read that right: I peed me pants.

I did. I really did.

Not my finest moment, but it happens.

So yeah, apparently, I like to edge.

When I nap, when I use the restroom, when I’m just about to….

You get the picture.

It’s funny, I was talking with a friend the other day and they mentioned how long it’s been since I last wrote on my blog.

Besides being somewhat unispired, and a little depressed this winter, I guess I’ve just been waiting around for inspiration to strike, for something big enough to happen where I wouldn’t have any choice but to jump at the keyboard and finally let loose.

But if I’ve learned anything from edging the last few days, it’s that it’s not always about the finale, but about the process of getting there.

I’ve never been one to just focus on the big stuff. I take all the little things, all of the seemingly unimportant observations, experiences, and moments, and I find meaning and purpose to them.

While peeing my pants isn’t necessarily described as big news (albeit, it is rather comical that a grown woman brought it upon herself), it is a funny story, and I learned something new about myself.

Apparently, I like to live life on the edge.

“spirit” of christmas.

a song to set the scene // amazing grace by jeff beck

The oversize timber frame door opened, to a grinning father in his classic tropical Tommy Bahama Santa shirt.

As a blast of cold air greeted him, a soothing wave of hot air greeted us, spotting a crackling fire in the background.

After pleasantries were exchanged, snowy boots taken off, and every manner of clothing discarded onto the bench by the door, my dad pointed to a Longaberger basket, where two phones lay.

A newly appointed tradition, my gem and I placed our phones alongside theirs, looking forward to a night without distraction.

This was family time, pure and simple.

No doom scrolling social media, no looking up who that one actor was in that one movie, no passing the time playing mindless games, and no texting.

After all- everything we needed, everyone who mattered, was here: in this cozy chalet that we call home.

As we each took up our respective stations, me stuffing wantons while my sister folded them, Josh Beck’s Amazing Grace filled the air as my family bustled and hustled to get Christmas Eve dinner on the table.

It is by far my favorite night of the year.

Core memories of childhood and crouching by the door waiting for guests to arrive, and running down the stairs in the wee dark hours of the morning, eager to see Santa and his goodies flooded me.

This. This here is what it’s all about.

How lucky I was, to spend this cherished night seeped in rich family tradition.

And on top of that I get to eat?

Wow.

Eager to capture the action, I pulled out my Polaroid.

One shot, that’s all you got.

That’s one thing I love about these cameras: the fragility of the moment, captured in one click.

Well, and the fact that you get a copy right then and there.

So I snapped a few pics.

Family photos just simply don’t exist without a father’s goofy expressions and the massive grins that spread across your sibling’s faces when they open their gifts.

And the evening was merry and bright.

As I was getting ready to retire for the night, tummy full, and heart overflowing with joy, I was smiling down at all of these snapshots from the evening when I noticed one sticking out.

It… fit in to the selection of photos before me, but at the same time, it didn’t.

‘Twas a picture of our Christmas tree. Taken with a flash, the image appeared dark, and one could just barely make out the shape of our lighted tree.

Curious, I asked who had taken the photo.

“Wasn’t me.”

“Not I.”

“I don’t even know how to use the Polaroid.”

“Didn’t you take it?”

“No, but now I’m scared!”

One by one, each member of my family checked out.

No one, to our knowledge, had taken this photo of our festive living room.

Who then?

Or what took that picture.

Befuddled, and half expecting to see creepy photos of all of us sleeping soundly in our beds when we got up in the morning, I laid down in my room at the end of the night and looked out the windows at the starry sky.

While the Ouji board under my bed tickled the possibility of something sinister (I know, I know it’s not the most kosher game to have lying around the house), I knew the photo signified something that meant more.

I believe that it was the “spirit” of Christmas.

Pun absolutely 100% without a doubt intended.

That living room and all those memories surrounding the Christmas tree, celebrating togetherness and being present with those most dear is what makes the holidays so special to me. Putting aside our differences and our phones for one rare night of the year means the world to me.

Well. That, and all the food.

The true meaning of Christmas takes place around that tree. It stands proud as the centerpiece of so many childhood memories, but I know it will also be there for future ones to be made.

When I went to bed that night, listening for those sleigh bells in the sky, I felt a smile make its way across my face as what felt like a subtle wind whispered through my hair.

I’d like to think that it was the true “spirit” of Christmas reminding me that the magic still exists.