Having admirably taken part in the annual perfunctory, yet prolonged, shopping orgy, our fearless author proceeds to be attracted to colorful and shiny objects, and wraps said procured goods in varying shades of glittery gift wrap and puts them under her plastic Christmas tree with mirth and glee. Incidentally, the disinterested Lutheran-born does not understand his Hindu-born girlfriend’s fascination with the Christmas phenomenon, and rolls his eyes at each new bow that is curled and every ornament that is precisely hung.
Christ never told us to celebrate his birth by putting glass trinkets on trees and catering to the Milton Bradleys and Saks Fifth Avenues of America. If one ignores all of that, there is still something satisfying about putting up a fir in your home and decorating it with reflective spheres, and giving things to people you like. It is culturally wonderful to participate in a tradition that, for fifteen years of my life, I had no feel for and can now indulge in with impunity. Along with eating delicious foods like shrimp salad, pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce, and … oh, my thighs hurt from their sudden explosion. Did I say “impunity?” I’m going to pay for this in January.
Oh, look, peanut brittle and raspberry tarts! Save me!
