~a column by Colleen O’Brien
I have three friends who dislike Christmas in all ways: the music that starts before Thanksgiving; the over-shopping for presents that people don’t want or need; the blow-up plastic Holy Family scene in front yards; the Christmas cards with only a signature, no note; the tasteless cookies from the neighbors; the pleading for money outside every grocery store in town and every check-out counter inside.
I agree with all the above.
But I love Christmas. It’s just a matter of refusing to let the nonsense Grinch me. There’s enough to be crabby about without grumbling about the too-much of commercial Christmas.
I live in a place where stringing outdoor Christmas lights is almost a rule. People get accusatory to my face if I leave a black hole in the neighborhood. “When will you be putting up your lights, Colleen?” You’d think they’d know by now that “Probably never” is the answer.
But this year, because of the crabbiness in general, I decided to confuse them/make them happy/let them tell each other, “It’s about time!”
The day after Thanksgiving I wound colored lights around the tallest digit of my six-foot-tall ancient cactus, threw a Santa hat on top and one Santa boot hanging from the pot where the old guy lives. It is cheery at night now in front of my house, although the grandfather plant has a definite phallic look that one does not notice when the old boy is unlit.
I feel sorry for my friends who grouse through the season, whatever the reason. One of them remembers her youthful Christmases only as a drunken-parent day, one tells me she never got presents and the other was everyone in the family bellyaching about how much work it is.
I admit that these are all awful Christmases. I need to ask them if maybe they could just make their own Christmas a less stressful affair – go out and have an expensive steak with all the money you saved not buying into Christmas. Stay home and watch horror flicks or all the Godfather movies, build a ship in a bottle.
This year, in the middle of many worthier things to gripe about than the over-doing of a holiday, people object to everything – politicians, fundraisers, the price of you-name-it, climate change (or no such thing), 12-minute doctor appointments, all meds, drivers (too slow, or on your bumper, never signaling, playing music louder than the semi rolling past you, no mufflers), walkers, bicyclists, acoustics in restaurants, decibels in the movie theater, complaining about one’s hemorrhoids as a form of conversation at the dinner party (or anytime).
When we had to wear masks for two years, we didn’t smile. It seems way too many of us got in the habit of no uplift of lips, and the frown just set in, a default look forever now, Grinches at every turn.
So, I put up my Christmas lights on the skinny old cactus, wait patiently for the turn signals to go on that never do and smile at strangers, which either makes them smile at me and makes both of our days, or mumble that they’ve just about had it with grinning grandmas who are trying to uplift everything.
Grumbling and criticizing are two human favorites. I have learned at last, from the flourishing population of Grinches in this era, to be happy whether I am or not. “Pretend you’re happy when you’re blue,” a pop song from the Fifties, keeps popping into my head (Is that why it’s called a “pop” song? Oh, no, pop means popular). And so, I have reason to be happy: I flout the status quo with nary a word but . . . a smile on my face.
