I’m one of those maniacs that doesn’t mind the Christmas decorations in stores during October. And if it were possible I’d lobby for it to be Christmas all year long. Regardless of the fact that I cringe at the thought of all the glittery paper that’s wasted and my ancestors have been cursed with an alarmingly strong Gravy Fail gene, I don’t care. I am in love with all the jolly and lights and fake icicles and antique ornaments that have been in my family since my great grandfather was alive and just the whole hullabaloo that surrounds the holidays. The rushing around and planning of menus. The wreaths and candy canes and the chance to wear more black velvet. I’m a fool for it all, even though I had to endure the explosion of my first Susie Homemaker Oven at the age of six—this horrifying experience never snuffed out one ounce of my inner Elfness. As a matter of fact, if I could, I would have pursued a degree in Elfhood if it weren’t for the fact that I look terrible in hats.
What about you? Don’t you just love it all? Even the assholes in the stores who cut in front of you in line? Even the relatives you’d never have in your life were you not connected through DNA? Isn’t there a glowy feel to the air and the sky and the faces of people in the cars next to you who you’re certain are headed to the airport to pick up someone coming in from far away? I don’t care what the Grincheys say. I adore it all and I always have and I believe that when I’m 90 I’ll still be wrestling with that last string of lights with that one vagabond bulb that won’t go on because I know that, when it comes to Christmas, you can always use more glimmering color.
Happy Merry Ho,