It is raining, such that all things seem far away, beyond the clouds. The dryness here near enough to keep me inside. Something seems a cheat about Christmas falling on a Sunday. It disrupts the spirit of the thing to not have it fall on a weekday where it belongs, where it is safe from work and warms us with the same. Holidays should never coincide with a weekend. The fact of a specific date should bend under the pressure and be squeezed out and away from the regularly expected days off. Monday will feel too much like a raincheck for a holiday, too unremarkable to celebrate, and like a fool I have ruined it all before its arrival by offering to work anyway.