Last year I wasn’t too jazzed about Christmas, but this year, I am fa-la-la-la-la-ing all over the place.  I might – might – even send out cards.  I might do some baking.  I’m definitely chopping down a tree from our local farm this weekend, dragging it home, and smothering the thing with all the white lights it will tolerate.  Then we’ll pull the ornaments out one at a time, recall Christmases past, and probably get on each other’s nerves a little before it’s all said and done.   

It’s a tough time of year for a lot of people.  We’re bombarded with all the mushy family/love/joy bullshit that makes some believe they aren’t whole, when the truth is probably that most families smiling on those Christmas cards are pretty fucked up. 
We try to recapture that magical joy of our youth when we believed in Santa and in a world that’s good, even if it’s only for a moment, to celebrate the season that turns our lives upside down once a year. 
I figured out a way to carry that glow around with me most of the time, and not just at Christmas, so I almost find it amusing that the world goes to so much trouble to artificially manufacture a loving heart each year’s end.  Such a fuss.
But even so, I do like Christmas, generally speaking, and I like my traditions – at least some of them.
One of my favorites over the past few years has been hanging my Cinderella stagecoach on the tree in a prime spot with a secret wish that one day I would meet a handsome Prince.  Hey – dreams really do come true sometimes.  
It’s a good Christmas.  Very, very good.
 
 

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