The ghosts of Christmas Past


The run up to Christmas used to be so much more interesting than it has turned out to be.

As a child, my sister and I used to spend hours making elaborate plans (on carbon paper, so each of us would have a copy to take to our rooms like the good little operatives we were) on how early we would wake the morning of the 25th, who would cross the hall and wake whom and how we would navigate the squeaky stairs and Spike, our loveable but loudly enthusiastic beagle. We spent most of December positively giddy.

As a teenager, it was all Christmas plays, caroling, hay rides and parties. My social calendar was loaded and before I got my driver's license, snow was a joy. I took every opportunity to stop and appreciate the beautiful, twinkling, chocolate-covered moment. One of my Top Ten Best Kisses took place on December 24, 1984 when Ken R. swept me up in his arms and kissed me like he meant it while the snow whirled around us. Right then, the world stopped and held its breath, leaving us in total insulated quiet to imprint a memory that can still make me smile. December was a haze of fun and food and friends.

In my late twenties, with a partner and a house and disposable income, I went the Martha route and dragged out my five totes of tasteful decorations every November 11. Everything went back into the attic the first week of the new year. I had holiday mugs, pate spreaders, pictures, towels...it wasn't as kitschy as I'm making it out to be, but yes, you could say my house was 'festive'. Real trees were mandatory; we hacked one down and dragged it home or we didn't have one at all. I baked my ass off and participated in cookie exchanges, I went shopping with The Boy for my annual Christmas sweater. (Man, looking back, those were sort of heinous in a good way). December (and a lot of November) was comforting and warm and symbolic.

And now: I'm always behind and I'm always broke and I always feel like I'm not doing enough. December is now a series of late nights spent catching up, working, cleaning, worrying and dreading social engagements where I'll have to dress up and make small talk while balancing a paper plate of nibbles on my lap in a house that's too damn hot. Yay.

I need to recapture those halcyon days of my youth, even if they have to be passed through that nasty, cynical filter of adulthood. I need to find the fun again.

Posted at 7:08 a.m.