Yes, I am extending the grace period of the gingerbread men door frame to my blogging another day. Oh, but you wanted real, coherent thoughts from me? My apologies. Mondays don't allow that.
Instead, I'll tell you about how my thoroughly antisocial four-hour gingerbread men project became an outlet for socializing. When my suitemate asked me if I could just make her one little gingerbread man, I said that sure, I'd love to because actually, I had one extra man that wasn't needed for the door and wasn't it funny how life worked out that way. And so I gave it to her.
But beyond that, I decided to go door to door on my hallway, asking each person to come adopt a gingerbread man as her own, please and thank you. Though I was chastised many times for putting up Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving, I countered with the statement that I had no other way to fill my Sunday afternoon-turned-evening. Luckily, this often turned to an "I don't understand your life and your random spurts of being really busy then having time to do crafts!" conversation, diverting everyone from the issue of decorating for holidays that are arguably too far away. Now, I have many claimed gingerbread men, just waiting for January to hit so they can find their new homes on people's doors.
Of course, we all know that this adoption-of-gingerbread-men shenanigan was really just a stunt to get people to ooh and ahh over my laborious measuring and folding and cutting and crafting. But they all knew that, and I knew that they all knew that, and you all know that I and they knew that, so I think we're really OK. And if any of you out there would like your name on a gingerbread man, speak up. There are still plenty of little people with earmuffs and scarves and bowties and neckties looking for a good home (and some admiration).