Archive for December, 2014
I Decided Not to Get a Tree This Year
Christmas is easier when you’re a kid. Naughty and nice is pretty uncomplicated. The fondest desires of your heart fit in a short letter. Reindeer can fly. And, after your Dad purchases, carries, and puts up the tree, you hang ornaments on it.
As an adult, Christmas can be a bit more complicated. There’s a whole lot of extra stuff to do in December—in addition to getting through a month with a balanced bank account, food in the ‘fridge, and pants on whenever you leave the house.
It’s not that grown-ups dislike Christmas. It’s just that, as you get older, you gain a better understanding of the villainous perspective. In the midst of shopping, baking, greeting cards, get-togethers, grab bag coordination, extreme calendar juggling, extension cord quests, and multiple runs to the state store, it’s possible to see a certain allure to the idea of tossing it all off Mt. Crumpit.
For me, when all else fails, Christmas comes when I’m decorating the tree. It’s the first time I play Christmas carols, the perfect soundtrack for reviewing ornaments. Little balls of time travel wrapped in tissue. I smile. I tear up. I handle bits of molded plastic as if they were Faberge eggs. It’s about the only time I sing something besides Happy Birthday. And it sometimes leads to dancing.
Putting up the tree is the most Christmasy thing I know. It’s more Christmasy than Christmas Day. It’s more moving than a church service. It’s transformative. It’s peaceful. It’s magic.
If that kid from Polar Express came in and shook the bell while I was decorating my tree, I would absolutely hear it jingle.
So, it may come as a surprise to hear that, this year, I decided not to get a tree. It seemed the sane thing. I was feeling overwhelmed. I was running out of time. And, it’s silly really, for me to go through all of that effort when, most years, I’m the only one who even sees my tree. (Really, who would even know if I decided to not get a tree?)
And, so, last week, being a mature adult who knows how to prioritize and get things done, I decided not to get a tree. And I felt relieved. And kind of sad.
And I told a good friend, “I’m not getting a tree.” And then, a bit surprised and a little annoyed, I heard myself add, “Well, maybe. I’m not sure. I might get a tree.”
And I decided to get a tree.
Then I wrenched my knee. There was no way I’d be able to get up and down the attic steps 432 times, let alone drag and lift a tree into the stand. And, so, last week, I decided not to get a tree. And I felt relieved. And kind of sad. And kind of old.
Then I heard my nephew was coming for a visit, and I knew: I have to have a tree! But the week got crazy. And windows of opportunity kept slipping shut. And, all of the sudden, the debate was over. Time was up. I was kind of stunned, really, but, at that point, I could allow that it wasn’t my decision. There simply wasn’t time left.
And so, yesterday, I sadly, glumly, sullenly, horribly, despairingly, finally decided that I would not get a tree this year.
I left the house with a pretty long to-do list. By late in the day, I had finished off the Christmas shopping, stocking stuffers included, and met a friend for lunch. The packages that had to be mailed were at the Post Office. Groceries for cookie baking and various get-togethers were in the trunk. All I had left to do was deposit checks, which I had been carrying around in my purse — endorsed! — for weeks. Walking into that bank felt like breaking the tape at the end of a very long marathon. Not that I have any idea what running a marathon actually feels like, but I was feeling like I might just make it through the holidays. I felt very grown-up and responsible and on top of things. I slipped the checks — which would cover the mortgage, car, lights, etc. — to the teller. She said, “Okay, you’re all set to deposit. Do you want anything back?” The answer was No.
But, then. I decided to get a tree.
Good luck, everyone. I hope you find your own life-preserving moment when it all comes back to you.
Dear Younger Self
I’d like to invent a time machine and take this note back to 1980. I would sneak into Shaler Area High School and put it in my locker. (Believe it or not, I still know the combination.)
Dear Younger Self,
There are so many things I wish I could tell you, but a blog can’t be overly long. (Oh, yeah, you’ll have a blog someday. And you write it in your own house, using a thing called a computer!) Anyway I hope this helps you survive the sucking sucktacular suck-fest that is your senior year of high school.
Hang in there, Weirdo!
Trust me. The things that make you different are the things that make you cool. Or, if they don’t make you cool exactly, they make you you, and when you figure that out, cool doesn’t matter.
Sail on!
If rough winds throw you off course, it only means you’re moving in a new direction. Might be a worse one, might be a better one. You won’t know for a while. No matter. The world is round. Sail on.
Sh*t Happens
Walk past it. Work around it. Light it on fire, ring a doorbell, and run. Just don’t carry it with you.
The Cute Boy
One sunny day, about five years after you’ve graduated from Shaler, you’ll run into The Cute Boy. You’ll be sweaty and wearing the ugliest outfit you’ll ever wear (an orange and brown polyester uniform), so maybe work on your sparkling conversation skills? Or learn how to flirt? Try not to be as dorky as your outfit.
F*** Sports
You have 20-plus years of ridiculously awesome fun volleyball in your future with some of the best people you will ever meet in your lifetime. When the strike ends, walk away from high school sports.
My recommended exit line is a phrase you don’t use. (Yet.)
It’s a Trap!
There are gazillions of jobs that exist in the world that may or may not correlate to knowing something about algebra, English lit, the dissection of small dead animals, and/or murder ball. Aptitude tests are, at best, useless; at worst, perilous confusion.
I can’t remember if they were mandatory. If not, skip them. If so, give crazy answers. Then, go do what you love.
Back-up Plan
I know that you are going to be a wife and mother and all that and it will be fabulous and happy with a great guy who loves you, but, just in case, um, crazy talk, haha, maybe consider having a back-up plan of something you might enjoy doing for a living for, oh, say, 30 or 40 years. No, no, don’t worry. I’m just messing with you, hahahaha.
But, um, just in case.
Show Up
Many years from now, late in November, fourteen years into a new millenium, there’s going to be a Shaler get-together called a Show Up. You won’t be sure you want to go. You’ll worry you don’t really have much to show for having been out in the world doing stuff for over 30 years. You don’t really like the idea of a room full of strangers. You dread the possibility of ending up standing in a corner by yourself, feeling awkward and socially inept. You’re afraid there just might be giant flashing spotlights and a monster truck announcer at the front door who will grab a microphone and yell, “Older! Fatter! Grayer! And stillllllll without a date to the prom — iiiiiiiit’s Beth!” as you walk into the bar.
Go to the party. Show up. You’ll have a blast. (There’s no announcer.)
Yes, young self, it’s true, even when you’re a middle-aged grown-up, there’ll be times when you have to find a way to be brave.
But, don’t worry, by then, you’ll be old enough to buy vodka.
Life Preservers 