Christmas has always been a big deal for me. I’ve loved it ever since I was a kid, when I’d wake up at 5 am and start nagging my parents to let me open my presents. I’ve been known to listen to Christmas music in the middle of July. In fact, just this past summer I threw my first-ever Christmas in July party. I’ve seen the Trans-Siberian Orchestra twice so far. This past December, I took a trip into the city to see the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree, which I love to do because New York is even more awesome at Christmastime.
In my house, the Christmas season has always begun the day after Thanksgiving when we put the decorations up, followed by our annual tree trimming party later that weekend. The season has always ended on Little Christmas, a.k.a. Epiphany, which is January 6th. I’ve researched and discovered that The Twelve Days of Christmas referred to in that God-awful song is from Christmas Day through January 5th, the eve of Little Christmas, so there’s proof that it’s still the Christmas season up until that point. The weekend immediately following that (or as the case is this year, the weekend of the Epiphany) is when the time we dread all December comes along. Denial sets in on New Year’s Day, when I tell myself the holiday season isn’t over quite yet, but reality hits less than a week later.
We’re still blasting Christmas music one more time as we crack open the dusty attic that smells like decaying corpses. We unfold the dangerously shaky wooden ladder that’s almost 20 years old and drag down our regular, boring, everyday stuff to replace all the cheery holiday knick-knacks. We bitch as we switch the Christmas mugs and glassware back to the plain ones. The most tedious task of all is taking the 300+ ornaments off the tree and placing them into their red and green plastic containers, praying they all fit. We then haul the heavy boxes back into the attic and try to figure out where all the year-long fake plants and pictures and everything else go.
Once the house is stripped of all holiday cheer and left looking unbearably bare, all we have to look forward to is a long, crappy winter. The hap – happiest season of all instantly turns into the crap – crappiest season of all. Most standup comedy acts have better transitions. The only good thing about the wintertime is my birthday on January 21st, and then after that it’s a bunch of constant shoveling and ice chopping and trying not to fall flat on our faces and/or asses. It really is a bitch.
I realize that I shouldn’t be too depressed about the end of the holiday season because before I know it, only a few months from now, Christmas decorations will start to pop up all over the place, in every mall and department store you could think of. Well guess what? I can’t wait till next year.