The Great Pre-December Compression
An inquiry into why every simple task now requires treaty-level negotiations.
My life has been full of terrible misfortunes most of which never happened.
Michel de Montaigne
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There is a special kind of heaviness to this stretch before December — not the noble, existential sort, but the variety engineered by a sly administrator of fate who has discovered the pleasure of piling small inconveniences on top of each other purely for sport. Time, in these weeks, behaves like a clerk who has mastered the art of subtle sabotage: nothing dramatic, just enough precision to make you question your grip on order.
Tasks that should pass discreetly instead expand with theatrical self-importance. A ten-second message demands a dissertation. Errands multiply until they resemble a small, restless nation-state. Even the act of standing up becomes a negotiation with forces that insist on adding an extra complication “for balance.” Late November has abandoned all decorum and embraced logistical torment with admirable commitment.
What ought to be a straightforward sequence of days compresses itself into a dense, unmanageable slab of time — the temporal equivalent of a suitcase packed by someone with no respect for physics. Ordinary obligations acquire the diplomatic gravitas of sovereign states: a single email requires arbitration, a trivial errand escalates into a summit, and replying to a text begins to feel like participating in a peace conference of questionable legitimacy.
The most baffling element is the confidence with which these trivialities inflate themselves. There is no hesitation, no embarrassment — only the solemn conviction that every minor task must now be treated as a matter of geopolitical significance. It is all executed with such straight-faced seriousness that one can’t help but admire the craftsmanship.
The only sensible response is strategic humour — the dry, measured amusement of someone who has witnessed this annual farce before and refuses to give chaos the satisfaction of a reaction. One watches the days assemble their sequence of delays, detours, and small malfunctions, evaluating the whole spectacle the way one might assess a very earnest but ultimately incompetent villain. Once observed clearly, the menace dissolves. Nothing collapses faster than self-important disorder exposed as a comedy performed slightly out of tune.
And so you move through this compressed season with a steady gait, a sharpened eyebrow, and an internal monologue alternating between “of course this is happening” and “how endearing.” December will eventually restore proportion.
Until then, sarcasm remains the most elegant form of self-defence: observe, smirk, and proceed with the calm authority of someone entirely unwilling to be impressed by the universe’s increasingly elaborate pranks.
D., for the Dostoyevsky Circle
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