Forgive me if I fail to allow the holiday spirit to tip-toe in here with its red-stockinged feet and the promise of merrymaking, but I'm just not in the mood. I could lie and say that, in fact, it's just this year that I feel kind of bothered by the whole holiday thing but, gingerbread man-oh-man, it's every year for me. I hate Christmas. I'm sorry, but I do. And I think I always have.
Right after Halloween, I just tuck my chin into my chest, avoid eye contact at all costs, and barrel through the turkey targeted season until it's officially over. Once the red paper cups come out at Starbucks, I know that I need to keep my sunglasses on even after the sun goes down. Why? Well, isn't it obvious? To further protect my eyes from the impending glare of all those little lights that will soon be strung up on houses that, who are we kidding, are already the most unsightly ones on the block. Why would you want to draw more attention to your home's shortcomings? When neighbors go caroling door to door, voicing neither an energy concern, nor a safety concern about many of these electrically molested houses that appear to be one short away from a fireball existence, I wonder about the human camaraderie of it all. I don't care if your house explodes. May your days be merry and BRIGHT!
As if going blind weren't enough, I also, miraculously, go blank once Christmas approaches. I never need anything once people start asking me about potential presents that could be bought for me. All year long I say to myself, I could really use a..., I wish someone would get me a ..., You know what I need? A ... Then, "Hey, Sandra, what can I get you for Christmas?" Um, nothing. Let's not exchange this year. Of course, no matter how many times I instruct people not to get me anything, there are always boxes under the tree with my name on them. And damnit if I don't have to then make a mad dash to the mall. For the record, you always spend more money when you do all your Christmas shopping in two hours.
Because it has become somewhat of a Christmas tradition of mine to forget that I need anything worth asking for, not many of the gifts bought for me over the years have been especially thoughtful. Some of them have been nice gestures that do not go to waste, but some of them couldn't have been more off-base or generic. And yet, they are always fun to receive and then survey on the whole. In fact, on Christmas mornings of late, I have adopted a new tradition for myself that I highly recommend. You see, after I tear through my presents, one after another, I like to lay all my newly acquired booty on my bed and look at it, like I'm trying to piece the puzzle of perception together. There are scarves, gloves, Barnes & Noble, Borders, Staples, & Starbucks gift cards. There are big black purses, and big black pairs of sunglasses. So, this is who people think I am, I say to myself, the chilly woman behind her dark sunglasses, with her designer bag slung over her shoulder as she carries a latte in one hand and a book and a pen in the other. My God, I say to myself, people think I'm a pretentious asshole, don't they?
And they do. But not my mother. No. I can tell by my mother's ghastly gifts to me every year that she has no idea who I am. Last year I got something so spectacularly awful, I am having trouble typing this right now because, as I am recalling it, I am teetering off my chair in a fit a giggles. Yes, last year my mother gave me a reversible electric blanket/poncho. You could either wear it so that the beige plastic slicker side was showing, or, if you sought further humiliation, you could turn it inside out and reveal its forest green Scotch Tape-print wool to the world. Why the woman on the package was smiling as she modeled this botched abortion, I have no idea. It just doesn't make any sense. Am I supposed to wear it out in the cold rain? An ELECTRIC blanket/poncho with a WOOL underside is water-friendly? Since when? Needless to say, right after I opened this present, I slid it right back over to my mother who is so used to my giving back her gifts, I can't believe she still has the nerve to be offended by my lack of gratitude. And yet, every Christmas morning, that's precisely what she is, offended by my lack of gratitude.
It seems that, despite my greatest efforts, I just can't pretend to appreciate something when I don't appreciate it. I want to, but I can't. If you must know, the notion itself makes me bristle. Therefore, Christmas doesn't suit me or my needs. It's either beyond me, or beneath me...the pretentious asshole that I am.
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