There are two kinds of people in this world.

Group A: the people sitting at home in your robes, sipping coffee and reading these words. Your meticulously wrapped presents lay under the tree. Your out-of-town gifts and cards were mailed weeks ago. Fixings for Christmas Eve dinner are tucked neatly away in your fridge.

Your houses are clean as a whistle and scented with pine or bayberry. Guest rooms are decked with new linens, fresh flowers, designer Kleenex boxes and little imported soaps in the bathroom.

Every “to do” item has been crossed off your list. The only thing left to accomplish in the next two days is delivering homemade preserves to neighbors and friends. You made the jam – an old family recipe – back in September. In assembly line fashion, you put it up in decorative, calligraphy-labeled jars with gingham fabric lid covers and little satin bows. You’ll deliver them this afternoon with sacks of warm scones.

You might take in a matinee today. Or a concert. After that, perhaps, a leisurely walk.

Your blood pressure is constant at 120/70, and your pulse rate is a healthy 68 beats per minute. There’s a look of serenity on your face and a sense of calm in your heart.

You are prepared.

Then, there are the people like me.

The Group B folks are so freaked out that it’s Dec. 23, we don’t have time to read the paper. We scour department store ads in hopes there might be ONE large black polar fleece jacket still left on the shelves. The gifts we already purchased haven’t been wrapped, and the few items we bought early – like in Mendocino this past summer – are nowhere to be found, even after ransacking all of our closets and drawers.

We frantically search Hallmark stores for Happy New Year’s cards (if there is such a thing) because it’s too late to send those Christmas cards we bought for half-price on Dec. 26, 2006.

And Christmas Eve dinner? Give me a break! We haven’t even thought about it. Ham? Turkey? Hamburger Helper? We’re considering going to a restaurant this year, trying to convince ourselves that traditions are meant to be broken. But we don’t even know which places are open on Christmas Eve and, besides, who’s got time to find out? (How does Kentucky Fried sound, kids?)

Our houses look like the aftermath of Pearl Harbor. Paper, ribbon and tags are strewn everywhere (along with the aforementioned ransacked closets and drawers.) We had two dispensers of tape an hour ago and now they, too, have disappeared. We’ve resorted to using Band-Aids with the little pads cut off to secure our packages. (It’s either that or flypaper.)

We’ll be lucky if we get clean sheets on the spare beds and the carpets vacuumed upstairs. Kleenex boxes? Ha! Our guests can use toilet paper like everybody else.

We have to remember to breathe at traffic lights while we speed around town. Who’s got time to come to a full and complete stop at intersections? We just pray we don’t get caught.

We’re starting to feel mild palpitations in our chest. Our blood pressure levels are off the charts. Pulses race with adrenaline (or was it that double espresso we chugged at the kitchen shop?)

Our brows are constantly furrowed. When we do muster a smile to say “happy holidays,” we look slightly crazed, like Richard Simmons or Charo.

We are unprepared. Again.

I don’t envy Group A. Sure, I’d like to have a little more peace of mind 48 hours out. But, truth be told, I like the dash to the finish line. I feel a kindred spirit with the dazed souls in the shops on Christmas Eve day. I love barricading myself in my room to wrap presents, yelling “DON’T COME IN!” at the top of my lungs when I hear footsteps in the hall.

After 52 years in this world, I’ve learned that things will always work out. Everything that needs to get done will get done. Presents will be wrapped. Families will gather. Meals will be eaten. Joy will be shared.

I wish each and every one of you a wonderful holiday, in whatever way you choose to celebrate, and prepare.

And I’ll see all of you crazy Group B people later in the stores!