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Broke Wife, Big City
The
grown-up side of Christmas
By
Aprill Brandon
Something
very strange has been going on these past few weeks. The month of
December is finally upon us. Which means it's almost Christmas.
And I
don't care.
I
haven't started decorating, I haven't annoyed my husband by belting
out my dirty version of "Carol of the Bells" and I haven't
even had a sip of eggnog yet.
It's
my favorite holiday and I haven't even acknowledged it.
But I
think I know why. See, depending on your age, the holiday season can
be perceived in many different ways.
As a
kid, it's all shiny, shiny lights and cookies and presents and big,
fat men with beards whom you've never met but nonetheless are
guaranteeing to do everything within their vast magical powers to
make sure YOU personally have a very merry Christmas.
As a
teenager, it means three weeks off school, the anticipation of your
mom finally buying you those "ridiculously over-priced"
(her words) pants with the vaguely suggestive word on the rear that
you'll just DIE without and hanging out with your cool, older cousin
with the tattoo at grandma's house.
In
your early 20's, it means one month of never-ending rounds of eggnog
and wine and seasonal beer and reddish-looking cocktails with cutesy
names like North Poletini and Santa's Sleigh Bomb at hip holiday
parties and festively decorated bars. And then going to your parents
where they feed you and give you lots of presents and do your laundry
if you ask nicely enough and then give you all the leftovers to boot
because you "look too skinny."
But
then, one day you're married and in your 30's and BOOM! You realize
it's December but you wouldn't know it from YOUR house, which still
has up an odd mixture of Fourth of July, Halloween and Thanksgiving
decor. And it's all because YOU are suddenly in charge of MAKING
Christmas happen. And that's when you cross the threshold from "this
is most wonderful time of year" to "can we just skip
Christmas this year and head to the Bahamas?"
Because
now when that massive ball of Christmas lights roughly the size of
Utah needs untangled, that angry, throbbing vein is appearing on YOUR
forehead, and not humorously on your father's head. And now when you
hear "Silver Bells" for the fourth time before you've even
had breakfast, it is no longer "festive" but some sort of
sadistic audio torture.
Suddenly,
you're Googling how much the going rate for a semi-decent kidney is
on the black market in order to afford gifts for your husband,
parents, siblings, nieces, nephews and even your stupid dog because
your husband thinks it's mean if little Buffy doesn't get at least
one chew toy. Not to mention, now it's a faux pas to not buy gifts
for your mailman, hairdresser, neighbor, boss, co-workers, cousin's
baby, mother-in-law's dog and the barista who serves you your
Peppermint Mocha every morning.
And
while before you always insisted that artificial Christmas trees were
just so "bourgeois" and that when you had your OWN home,
you wouldn't be caught dead without a real pine tree, this year your
corner is inhabited by a $19.99 three-foot tall fake tree that looks
like it died of some horrible fake tree disease in 1974.
And
even though you swore you were going to make gingerbread cookies from
scratch this year, two minutes inside the store made you grab the
closest pre-packaged desert-like item and SPRINT back to your car out
of a not-entirely-unreasonable fear of being stabbed by a soccer mom
with a candy cane.
And
let's not even get into attempting to make plans to travel to spend
the holidays with your family, or maybe your in-laws, and having to
decide which one and if you can even afford it and if you and your
husband and your stupid dog can even survive a 14-hour road trip in
heavy traffic without killing each other.
Of
course, come Christmas Eve, when everything is finally done, you'll
finally find yourself falling under the magic spell of the season.
And so you snuggle down on the couch to watch "Miracle on 34th
Street" with some eggnog and sigh a sigh of contentment. Because
it's Christmas. And it really is the most wonderful time of the year.
Until
you realize you don't even have kids yet.
And
everything is only going to get worse when you do.
Sigh.
Can’t get enough of
Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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