Everyone knows at least one. You know, the organized, artistic people who plan their holiday cards weeks or even months in advance. They design beautifully laid out typography and hand drawn illustrations, perfectly evoking the warmth and glow of holiday cheer. Then, with flawless penmanship, they hand address each envelope, a carefully selected 100% rag paper stock that is crisp enough to take ink well, yet feels silky in the hand. When you open the card, you notice the paper is just that perfect shade of white to conjure memories of the first snowfall that year when you were 6 years old. Remember? It was when you woke up before everyone else. Before the sun came up. You tiptoed to the window, pressing your face against the cold glass, squinting into the dim twilight, as delicate flakes floated from above. The snowy landscape had an almost luminescent glow. It looked like someone had redecorated the whole world while you slept. Then you noticed the quiet. It was a new kind of silence, not a lack of noise, but a vast space brimming with possibility. Yeah, opening their card feels just like that. I envy people who are organized and creative enough to make cards like that.
It turns out, I am just not one of those people.