Scrooge is underrated.
It’s Christmas time again, and I’m sad to say that every time it rears its cheery little head at me, I find it less and less exciting, less enthralling. It’s become a chore to haul dusty ornaments and miscellaneous knick-knacks from the depths of the garage, for me to decorate a tree alone and reflect on how each handmade ornament meant something to me once. It’s like an invisible elf squeezed every last drop of sentimental feeling and left a skeleton of 12 year old construction paper and glitter.
It’s hard to have feelings for a holiday that you now celebrate with just two people, relatives having been plucked out one by one for crimes against the family. I’ll have to excuse myself for not being able to feel that Christmas warmth when I’ve become accustomed to pretending that those years past are just hazy memories, an old Christmas movie you saw rerun on the TV but don’t remember the title.
I don’t want anything for Christmas. I see gift wrap as unrecyclable paper waste, lights as energy consumption, carols as music with no deeper meaning than “mary had a little lamb.” And I’m well aware that some people get really into Christmas, and who am I to spoil their fun? I just want a first world Christmas again.
