When a co-worker told me about her harried (but safely masked) holiday shopping, making a list and checking it twice for everyone in her family and her circle of friends, I listened, smiled, and nodded, and now I’ll tell you what I had the good sense not to tell her: I don’t do Christmas.
Screw Christmas. It’s mostly for children, ain’t it? And all right, yeah, it’s nice seeing that (rare) simple joy when a brat you maybe love unwraps a present that really, really makes ‘em momentarily happy. Can’t argue with that, so hooray for Christmas, if you’re under the age of eleven — or if you’re older, but actually enjoy it.
I am older, and absolutely don’t enjoy it. I neither give nor receive cards or presents, have no tree, make no trips home to the family. Count me out.
Usually I’m happy to see my brother, my sister, my mom, all my nieces and most of my nephews — god bless ‘em, almost every one — but seeing all of them, all at once, for several consecutive hours, or for an entire day, maybe a weekend? Damn, that’s exhausting.
For me, Christmas was a guaranteed disappointment, every year. Yet I always did the whole holiday, and came home with a hollow feeling in my gut and a satchel of stuff I didn’t need.
Reconsidering it, I announced my resignation from Christmas at Thanksgiving, 1987. “I love you each and all, but I won’t be giving gifts, I’d appreciate it if you got me nothing, and I won’t be home for Christmas.”
Why? Because screw the pressure of a big holiday that’s supposed to define family and love and the best of humanity — but never does. Screw the purchase and wrapping, giving and unwrapping of mostly-unwanted presents. Screw the politics and religion — and in my family, screw the prayer and Bible readings. Screw the time and hassle, for a big event that can’t live up to the hype.
That first year I opted out was wonderful. Instead of weeks of dread before the 25th, I had weeks of calm. I didn’t send cards. I didn’t go Xmas shopping. I didn’t even watch A Charlie Brown Christmas. Come the 24th I unplugged my phone, and on the morning of the 25th I slept in, and then read a book and ate Honey Nut Cheerios. Me being me, maybe I masturbated. It was a lovely morning, and then in the afternoon I went to a movie, and treated myself to a big buttered popcorn with a free refill, and a giant Diet soda, and lots of chocolate I’d snuck into the theater.
Every year since, I’ve honored the same tradition. I skip the expectations and inevitable let-down, and instead watch a movie, and maybe have lunch at a Chinese restaurant.
After saying all that, though, I want to wish you a merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart, and I mean it, sincerely. There ain’t nothing like a 10,000-watt tree in the corner, and Grandma’s strudel, and hearing all those silly songs — if that’s what you want.
If it gives you a genuine feeling of family, friendship, and love, do it by golly and enjoy it with a hug from Doug.
But just as sincerely, if the Christmas season injures your mental health, gives you gift-wrapped sadness and emptiness, and every year it feels like you’ve failed, it’s AOK to go to the movies instead.
12/7/2020
updated, 12/25/2021
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