Recently I entered a Twitter thread on the benefits of cold water exposure, ie subjecting oneself to uncomfortably frigid water. I had heard of some of the advantages before–faster metabolism, improved immune response, better sleep, raised libido (!)–but this thread focused on the neurological reasons for cold water being such a draw: the low temperature prompts a panic response in the brain, and the body breathes through the panic to reach the other side, adjusting to the cold and coming to a place of calm.

Metaphorical, I know. Exposure becoming therapy and all. I think of all the panic responses my brain/body have endured throughout my life (too many to count; the threshold is low) and the varying times it has taken me to reach a place of calm. Longer than a plunge in the South Pacific in the winter, that’s for sure. Life is full of this kind of exposure therapy, I just haven’t often seen it as such.

On Sunday, upon my incessant demands (and after cajoling the kids to be “on my side about this”), The Husband finally descended into the garage and brought up our Christmas tree and boxes of decorations. He would refer to this as work, but it was only once the boxes had been delivered that the real labour of love began. I had done the prep work: bought and lit a piney Christmas candle, turned up the volume on a Spotify playlist, retrieved the sugar cookies from the oven. When TH dropped the final box on the floor, I–with barely contained glee–announced, “IT STARTS NOW!” The kids dived into the boxes, most of which were ornaments that couldn’t be dealt with until the lights had been strung on the tree per my instructions. So they looked through some of their old Christmas artwork, threw it on the shelves as decor, tossed the ornaments on the table, and retreated with TH to the couch to watch football.

This was not the family fun I’d had in mind. Over the next few minutes I wrestled with the damn lights, stringing and unstringing them, my back twisting in knots and my patience wearing razor-thin, casting death glares back at the trio relaxing on our new sofa. Finally, I threw the lights to the ground. “I’m DONE,” I announced, adding under my breath, “Since I’m the only one who gives a shit.”

I folded laundry upstairs, then approached the living room again but, seeing the lights on the floor and the males (still) on the couch, knew it was too soon. So I went upstairs and lay on the bed for awhile, stewing about the patriarchy and unpaid labour and how it’s always like this, “it” being both my family’s loss of interest in decorating and my own best- and rigidly-laid plans falling into disarray. Tis the effing season. EVERY season.

Eventually, because it’s also always like this, I came back downstairs and worked out the lights. And when I had, the boys jumped up and, gusto renewed, hung the ornaments. TH still slept on the couch, but I didn’t kill him or post a photo of it to social media (progress). Then he went out and picked up takeaway dinner, so I think it’s clear I ended up being the real winner, back pain notwithstanding.

It’s the up and the down and the all over again. The shock of cold water, unplanned interruptions (another word for life; I tend to see everything unplanned as an interruption), emotional breakdowns, unexpected loneliness, followed by a restoration of some sort of homeostasis, or a new form of it altogether. Reset expectations (or libido?), renewed gusto, reforged understanding. The next morning, I returned from a run to see a wallaby bounding across our front lawn, then came inside to see Kevin the Dog nabbing a hunstman. Six years ago such a scene would have sent me to the psych ward; now it’s just a Monday.

After the decorating had ceased, all I wanted was to retreat to my bed and Netflix. Alas, Little Brother had other plans. He surveyed “our” accomplishments and grinned. “FAMILY HUG!” he announced, and even TH got off the couch as the five of us (you thought we’d leave out the dog?!) gathered, joined on the other side we’d reached together.