Countdown to Christmas

I’ve approached Christmas reluctantly this year. Women I’ve talked to while shopping have agreed: it snuck up on us; Thanksgiving was unforgivably late, we insist on not shopping until after that and it’s been hard to get into the spirit. At the grocery store, as another woman and I dug through the packaged cheddar cheeses together, looking for the smallest, hence lowest priced, we said all these things to each other. Most of the cheeses were priced around $3.50. “Look, here’s one for $2.08,” she said, “and besides,” her tone became accusatory, “Christmas comes in the middle of the week this year. I hate that.” “I know,” I agreed. “It’s so wrong. Wait, here’s one for $1.86.” We both ended with a cheese under two bucks and parted in victorious sisterhood.

In the car, I change the radio station whenever they start with the Christmas music. Usually I can count on KUVO, my local jazz station, but even that can’t be trusted now. They’ll be rocking some Cannonball Adderley and then slip in someone noodling around on the piano about a white Christmas. Shut up about a white Christmas already.

My husband says this is nothing new, I always go kicking and protesting toward the holidays, but at some point surrender and become a willing participant. Humph, I say. Here’s the thing about people you live with: they consider themselves authorities on you. “No, really, “ Phil dismisses authoritatively, “you do this every year.”

I’m the first to admit that I don’t have as clear a view of my behavior as the one standing by watching me dig in my heels. That doesn’t make such pronouncements any less annoying. Certainly I enjoyed doing the cards last year, scribbled personal notes in most of them. I’m bucking the trend to e-holiday cards, have received two of those already. Never touched by human hands. Nothing to display on the mantel. Christmas cards delivered by the U.S. Postal Service are the one lingering reminder of what the postal service used to be for: personal correspondence written in no longer taught cursive.

This year, I got cards and stamps and address lists organized on the dining room table and there they sat untouched, day after day, oppressing me. This year I postponed shopping again and again, crossing it off Monday’s to do list and adding it to Tuesday’s. When I finally sat down to write some cards, I was sullen about it. “I’m resigning from capitalism,” I muttered darkly. Let’s go back to a barter system. I’ll give you a lesson in how to write holiday cards in cursive and you give me gas and electric for the month. Wha’d’ya mean, for a day if I’m lucky? O.K., so maybe not a barter system.

I tried bartering with my husband.

“Let’s not buy each other presents this year.”

“Too late,” he replied.

How did he sneak out shopping without my noticing? Lord knows, I try to scrutinize his every move. So much of what he does requires my advice and correction. “Sweetie,” I say, as he puts something on the stove, “your flame is too high.” But instead of appreciating such instruction, he gets grumpy. That hasn’t stopped me for nearly thirty years now. I persevere.

“O.K., then,” I retreat. “Let’s only get two things for each other.” By now I’m not really negotiating, but fishing for a hint about how many things he’s giving me. He wouldn’t agree to that either. So I’m getting more than two.

Around mid-December, I get a dim recollection of having invited friends to Christmas dinner, back when I felt the holidays were possible. A realization blooms in my mind like a mushroom cloud: that means I need to plan and prepare a meal. I sink into a grim state: “winter’s cold darkness is a harbinger of the grave that awaits us all” and other such cheery thoughts waft through my mind.

Then I go to a handcrafted fair in a cavernous old warehouse and get half my shopping done in one fell swoop. No lines, no parking hassles. The charming young artisan entrepreneurs have blown glass, made jewelry, tanned leather, put up delectable preserves and are brimming with joy in their work. It dawns on me that I might pull off this holiday without going to a big box store or mall, both of which give me a rash. I start enjoying writing “happy holidays” on cards, enjoying even more pointing out the expression’s leftist liberal bias. I’m excited about the friends coming for dinner, pretty much non-Christians one and all, can hardly wait for everyone to see what I’ve bought them, especially Phil, who now has several—I ain’t saying how many—gifts hidden away.