It’s Christmas. And, once again, I’m making all the wrong choices.
That is, doing exactly what I said I wouldn’t do again last year.
That is, do Christmas.
“I won’t go to that trouble again.”
No. Never.
The “trouble”, exactly?
This year, I simply can’t afford it. It really is a matter of living expenses or Christmas. Rent or not.
And, you can’t not have Christmas.
You’re either generous or a Scrooge. A believer or a heathen. Love me or don’t. Success or failure (i.e., flush or broke).
Not that I actually ascribe to any of the above, and I’m a giver. It delights me to bestow. And there’s very little joy in not being able to gift as I would like.
Would it feel any differently if I could afford it?
Duh.
“What’s wrong with you? We’re all in the same boat this year. Don’t worry about it. We understand. We’ll get through it.”
Sure we will.
All I remember as a child about Christmas, is you either got what you wanted, or not. And it was never the expected (necessary) clothes item from Grandma Kirby (bought by Mom), it was what you really wanted, from Santa, which Mom already told you you weren’t getting.
If you did, it was a “good Christmas” this year. If not, it was somehow still a “good Christmas”, I guess. Because we had one.
Okay, that’s a bit one-sided. There’s other things I enjoyed, still, about Christmas.
The lights. The caroles. The crowded church. Snow. The biggest orange I’ve ever seen in my stocking. Christmas cookies (we frosted, with sprinkles). Christmas eve, my mother’s side, with her eight siblings, always a full house of merriment with ham surrounded by a feast. Hugs and kisses.
The anticipation. Some years more cursed than joyful.
There will be ham tonight. (Thanks, Shelley).
And loved ones.
And Johnny Mathis.
Merry.
