You might say that I am a bit of a humbug, or maybe I’m a little Scroogish? Perhaps so. I have to confess that I’m not much of a Christmas fanatic. I think my problem stems from a lack of snow…and sleigh bells and the jangle of harnesses—a yearning that comes from ancient DNA and Scandinavian forebears.

Instead of the Arctic Circle, I live in California. Far enough from the ski lifts above Lake Tahoe to guarantee my chance of being snowed on is less than getting struck by lightning while skating in Union Square—backwards…with a penguin.

We have no snow in the Bay Area, no winter wonderland. Just faux ice. No wonder I’m grumpy shopping among the peacocking color pallets of ski gear hanging from every corner. I resent the lovely jackets that are too hot to wear at any time during the season.

 

Of course, Christmas was a delight when we had a small child to bamboozle.

Santa always tracking ash from the hearth, leaving boot prints across the floor, and the mess the reindeer made with the carrots—fun! Presents shaken and Christmas wishes wished. But it’s been years and our celebrations have evolved into something less whimsical.

When I was in my twenties, I channeled my inner elf. I did all my shopping on Christmas Eve, a captive to my Christmas bonus, waiting until the last moment after cashing my check. I’d hit the mall after dinner. Once the crowds had thinned the stores shared a magic of their own, glittering with lights and decorations. Perfect gifts would leap into my hands—no second guessing, no regrets.

 

These days shopping feels like a joust against a giant fire breathing Christmas Dragon.

It’s a miss-mash of online and in person bouts and I find myself wandering aimlessly among the department store racks, fingering raglan sleeves of possibilities. Desperate, I count on inspiration to win the day but it gets harder each year. My house is filled with stuff and I imagine everyone else has the same problem: Things. Objects. Items. Gifts.

We’re choking on the ribbons and bows of our consumerism—less is more! I chant in my head even as I consider a pair of holiday socks. Unlikely to be worn, I buy them anyway—hope springing eternal—and ask for a gift receipt.

Still, I want to feel the joy of Christmas, and recapture the wonder of childhood, but we’ve been wading through expressions of the holidays since September when they battled for shelf space with the back to school supplies. And I’m busy—not to mention a little resentful of the time and money I spend. So I slog on, checking people off my list.

 

Despite this, I seem to have silently absorbed the golden tinsel and jingle bells and trappings of red bows on wreaths.

I find myself humming carols and reading cookie recipes I won’t bake. I I find myself watching Rudolph at midnight instead of changing the channel, just because. It is a slow process and I don’t notice that I’ve become invested in the spirit of Christmas until suddenly I do. It hits as I venture onto the island of holiday indifference which is Restoration Hardware.

In my red suede boots, I am the brightest, and only, expression of the holiday season to be seen.

It offends me.

Where is the sea of baubles and garland? Their entire store is shades of beige against an ocean of polished concrete. There is nary an artificial tree, string of lights, or bowl of golden apples to grace the icy marble coffee tables that anchor their gigantic low-profile sectionals. I’ve never seen a store stripped to the walls of color before.

When did prison chic become a thing?

 

Like the Grinch, I have my own epiphany—there is still time to turn this sleigh of stolen toys—er um, Christmas spirit—around! So I’m off to buy a Poinsettia and maybe a few candy canes to stealthily tuck between the taupe throw pillows in a certain store…

 I’m saving the Christmas cookies for myself.

Wishing you all happiness and a holiday filled with color and love.

 

LE