Bing is up. I looked up and there he was. I should have seen this coming. The husband has been humming “It’s Beginning To Look A lot Like Christmas” all day, and I have been buried under a blanket with a book pretending I can’t hear him. He mumbled something about “bows” an hour ago and ran out the door. Jolly Joe returned an hour later with shopping bags and scampered past my still blanketed form, now pinned under two Labs. Before I knew it, the fruit watercolor print was down, and the framed Bing Crosby Christmas album was up, sounding the Christmas alarm. Fa. La, La.
Before you write me off as a joy-killing Ebeneezer , it’s not Christmas I dislike. It’s not baby Jesus asleep in the hay I abhor. It’s just , oh, say…everything else. Shopping, decorating, cooking, you know, everything. I am not good at any of it, and the expectations of others has me quaking in my Uggs already. The declarations of my family and friends, “tree’s up! gifts wrapped!”, has my head spinning like Linda Blair, spewing envy, disgust and fear simultaneously. A Christmas carol on the radio has me changing the channel as fast as when the erectile dysfunction commercial interrupts our family television time. (If there is one thing my boys will know how to do, it will be to seek medical attention if an erection lasts longer than four hours….yada, yada, yada…but, I digress)
There is one thing I do love about Christmas though. I love Festive Joe. Despite my lack of spirit, he decorates and sings anyway, like a Who in Whoville, my grinchiness will not thwart him. He bakes cookies. Chef Joe plans and cooks a killer Christmas morning brunch for our family. As I type , a six foot elf just ran past me with a wreath on his head and a big smile on his face. I felt a heart full of love for him, and maybe, just maybe a teeny twinge of Christmas spirit starting to seed? We’ll see.