What To Do Between Christmas And New Year

So, it’s the 27th. The wrapping paper is a battlefield. The turkey leftovers are staring you down. You’ve achieved peak couch posture. What now?

Welcome to the Twixmas—that magnificent, lawless void between December 25th and January 1st. It’s a temporal island. Nobody knows what day it is. It’s a magical, slightly smelly, procrastinator’s paradise.

The Great Reset

First, embrace the nothingness. You are not obligated to be productive. Tradition says this was the “Twelve Days of Christmas”—a party that started on the 25th. Your ancestors partied hard for a week. You have permission to nap.

But let’s be real: even a slug gets bored. You need a plan. A deliciously low-stakes plan. Something that makes you feel like a time-traveling secret agent.

Go on a “Death Drive.” Find the tackiest Christmas lights in your town. Rate them. Award trophies to the houses that look like they’re trying to signal aliens. Bonus points for inflatable snowmen doing the worm.

Become a Leftover Scientist

Don’t just reheat. Transform. Make a turkey and cranberry grilled cheese. Turn mashed potatoes into a crispy pancake. It’s a culinary experiment with zero consequences. If it fails, you eat cheese.

Short film marathon, not a series. You don’t have time for a 10-hour binge. Watch a 15-minute weirdo movie about sentient tinsel. It’s the comedy of strange attention span. You’ll feel smarter. Or dumber. Both are wins.

The Nostalgia Hack

Do you remember Home Alone 2? Of course you do. But have you watched it every single day between Christmas and New Year? That’s a power move. Rewatch the same three movies until your brain is soft and fuzzy. It’s a form of meditation.

Or, go backwards. Watch movies you hated as a kid. The cheese might taste different now. A bad movie seen in this limbo state becomes a hilarious inside joke with yourself.

Write a letter to your past self. Not a deep, emotional one. A silly one. “Dear Past Me: Don’t buy that sweater. The cat hated it.” Seal it. Throw it away. The act is cathartic. It’s a little time-warping ritual.

The “No-Plan” Plan

Did you know that historically, this period was called “Daft Days”? People dressed up, switched roles, and acted the fool. It was a licensed social break. You get to be a fool now, too.

Call a friend for no reason. Not to schedule a coffee. Just to say, “Hey, I’m eating a cold pig in a blanket. What color are your socks?” That is a Twixmas conversation. It’s pure chaos bonding.

Fold a thousand paper cranes. No, that’s dumb. Fold three paper cranes. Then give them names. Let them fight. It’s a tiny, improvised theater in your living room. No one is watching.

The Energy Trick

You have that weird, fuzzy, “I ate a whole Yule log” energy. Don’t fight it. Lean into micro-adventures. Walk to a park you’ve never noticed. Bring a flask of hot chocolate. Sit on a cold bench. Watch a squirrel judge you. It’s deeply silly and very human.

Curate strange playlists. Make one called “Songs that sound like a broken elevator.” Another called “Songs for a mermaid’s funeral.” Share them with no one. The secret joy of a weird playlist is knowing it exists.

Clean one drawer. Just one. The one with stale mints and dead batteries. Doing this makes you feel powerful. You vanquished a drawer. The rest of the house can wait until 2025.

The 29th: The Night of the Living Leftovers

By now, the turkey has become a ghost. It’s haunting your fridge. Don’t fear it. Embrace the final feast. Combine all leftovers into one monstrous “everything” casserole. Call it “The Graveyard.” Eat it in silence. It’s a solemn, delicious ritual of closure.

Start a fake tradition. Invent one tonight. “Every year on the 29th, we must wear one shoe on our head for five minutes.” Tell your family. They’ll groan. They will do it next year. You just created a cult.

Go outside at midnight. Not for fireworks—for silence. The world is holding its breath. You can hear the stars whispering. Or that’s a street cat. Either way, it’s weirdly profound.

The Final Day (Dec. 31)

Don’t force a big party. Host a “No-Party Party.” Invite only yourself. Wear pajamas. Eat leftover cake on the floor. Watch the ball drop on mute. Predict what the host will say. Laugh when you’re right.

Do not make resolutions. That’s a trap. Instead, make a short list of things you’ll continue to avoid in the new year. Like folding laundry. Or pretending to like kale. It’s honest. It’s freeing.

Finally, write down one weird thing that happened during Twixmas. Maybe it was the paper crane fight. Maybe it was the squirrel judgment. Seal it in an envelope. Label it “Do Not Open Until Dec. 27, Next Year.” You just created a time capsule of glorious nonsense.

You survived the void. You played in the messy middle. And now? You have one perfect day left to do absolutely nothing. Use it wisely. The couch is calling. Answer it with a blanket burrito.