Every year, on the day after Thanksgiving, you could hear curses raining down from our attic that were so complicated and caustic that they could strip the paint right off your walls.
The source of this inventive invective was my father, shirtless, with half a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, sending box after box of Christmas decorations down to my brother and me. From our living room, my mother was playing The Beach Boys’ Christmas Album, so my dad’s cursing got all mixed up with Brian Wilson’s caroling…
It’s the little Saint (censored)… it’s the little Saint (censored)
I never understood why my dad grumbled so much. Sure, the attic was cramped and uncomfortable, but it was Christmas, which meant presents and joy and parties and more presents and time off from school, and did I mention presents? Who could be annoyed with all that to look forward to?
It wasn’t until I had my own kids, and got my own attic crammed with Christmas boxes, that I understood why my dad was annoyed: because Christmastime is annoying when you’re an adult, for several reasons.
For one thing, the Christmas season is both way too long and far too short. Now that stores fire bazookas full of tinsel down every aisle approximately 15 minutes after the kids are done trick or treating, we all say the same thing: “Christmas keeps starting earlier and earlier!”
And yet, despite this fact, I always seem to be caught by surprise somewhere in mid-December when I realize that I haven’t gotten any Christmas shopping done. Then, I’m scrambling, dashing through the malls and holly-jollying my way through Amazon, feeling the same kind of tension that the survivors in a zombie movie must feel as they’re trying to get the last can of creamed corn from a hollowed-out ACME.
To paraphrase John Lennon: Christmas is what happens to you when you’re busy complaining about how early Christmas comes each year.
Finding the right present is annoying too. My wife and I (along with Santa, of course), dutifully spend time, effort and money on making sure all three of our children get a good mix of things that they asked for, plus a few surprises.
Despite all this work, our hit rate seems to be right around 50%, with extended relatives barely cracking the Mendoza line. So, every year, after we clear away a few garbage bags full of wrapping paper, each the approximate size of a 1974 Volkswagen minibus, we’re left with an ocean of plastic littered about our floor, the majority of which my kids will never play with (or in some cases, never even look at) again.
Also, let’s face it: being with your family is exhausting. With even your closest friends, there is at least a veil of civility that you can drape over every interaction. After all, these are the people you choose to have in your life, and that fact makes you feel obligated to treat them with warmth and understanding.
But your family? Those dumdums are stuck with you no matter what, so every petty grievance or half-remembered slight is only an eggnog or two away from bubbling into a full-scale Christmas party Civil War.
This being an election year makes it even worse. We’ve all got that one uncle who brings his podium and notecards to your house every year, determined to spend the Christmas season giving a series of Ted talks about why his preferred candidate did or did not win.
Plus, if your family doesn’t live nearby, you have to join the rest of the raggedy masses, marching to and from airports with all the enthusiasm of World War I soldiers being told they’re about to go over the top. On even the best weeks, the American domestic airline experience feels like an ongoing experiment to see how much legroom they can take from us until we break.
But on Christmas? There’s more of everything: more people, more discomfort, more crying kids, more kicking and coughing … more annoyance.
So, why do we subject ourselves to this? Why do we spend two months out of every year putting coal into our own stockings?
Well, I think back to my father, up in the attic, in a cloud of cigarette smoke and colorful synonyms, and I smile.
I picture the board games, bought in a rush, and played with only once, and I smile.
I picture my family, in ugly sweaters and covered in a layer of airport grime, yelling at each other around a kitchen table, and I smile.
That’s the funny thing about coal. You put it in your stocking and then subject it to two long months of stress and pressure, and, amazingly, what you’re left with is a shiny Christmas diamond.
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Published and copyrighted in South Jersey Magazine, Volume 21, Issue 8 (November 2024)
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