Meganezer Scrooge

I hate Christmas.

Go ahead and cry if you want, but I’m not taking it back. Over the years Christmas has fast been losing its appeal and now I’m finally at the point where I just hate it. Every year it’s become more and more of a chore to celebrate, bake cookies, buy gifts and battle airport crowds to spend a few cramped and stressful days with family. I know that some of you love that crap, but there are plenty of people who are fed up. Here’s how it all breaks down for me:

First, at a young age I was told that there was no Santa Claus. (This is something for which my mother should be applauded, however she loses this credit because she knowingly perpetuated the Tooth Fairy lie until I was eight.) Thus, from the age of four I became an accomplice in the Santa conspiracy; withholding the truth from my friends and schoolmates until denying the existence of Santa became socially acceptable (like, 5th grade for some slow kids). This sucked—not not believing, but rather being guilted into lying about it in order to preserve other kids’ sham of a Christmas belief system.

Second, when I was nine I opened the car trunk to help my mom unload some groceries and caught a glimpse of my Christmas gift. I felt guilty and pretended that I didn’t see it—a hard thing to do for a young girl who’s just discovered the sparkly pink and purple plastic pony of her dreams. I agonized over my discovery for days, wondering if I should confess what I had seen but I finally decided against it. However, knowing that my mother would be disappointed about this spoiler, I over-compensated in my enthusiasm for my gift on Christmas morning. Of course, having had little theatrical exposure beyond Disney movies and Bugs Bunny cartoons I believed that a huge chicklet grin and wide, unblinking eyes would properly convey a sense of awe and surprise. Thinking back I really must have freaked her out, but whatever, that’s just what she gets for the Tooth Fairy debacle.

Third, every Christmas involves a long drive or flight to Michigan, the land of snow and family. It sounds very Christmassy but it’s just cold and suffocating. Although I love my grandparents, a houseful of cousins and aunts and uncles isn’t the most relaxing of experiences. Plus, there never is much to do in their small town besides sit around the house or go to the mall. This brings me to my fourth point—

Gift returns. Every year since I’ve been tiny my grandmother has scoured Mervyn’s for the perfect outfit for me, my cousins and my aunts. Notice how the word “outfit” is singular? That’s because we all got the same exact one. That’s right. Each year my mother, my three aunts, my four girl cousins and I all got the same oversized pink sweater and white stirrup-pants, or their fashion-forward equivalent. And although I’ve made numerous attempts to correct her, my grandmother always gets me the wrong size—way too small. I haven’t been a size 6 since I was in kindergarten. This misunderstanding is not aided by the fact that my cousins are all gorgeous, skinny, yet super-busty babes. (Despite years of secrecy it is now perfectly obvious that my mother and her siblings were all adopted from different gene pools—especially when the grandchildren are considered. Compared to my uncle’s demi-goddess children my brothers and I look like we came from another planet. A planet populated by ugly hobbits.) Thus, every year when I finally get tired of watching “Octopussy” on TNT’s James Bond Marathon, I must head into the mall crush to return my sweater set for something that fits.

Fifth, I hate malls. More than Christmas even, although my hate of malls is a significant factor in my hate of Christmas. They are crowded and full of useless crap that I’m pressured into buying in order to satisfy this gift-centric holiday. Don’t get me wrong—I like giving people gifts, I just want to do it in my own time. I realize that everyone suffers from this pressure because I get panicked messages from family demanding gift ideas for me and other family members. But I never know what I want, much less what to get other people. This just creates a ridiculous situation in which we’re all running around buying stuff that no one needs just because we have to put something under the tree. I know the whole “let’s not do gifts this year” thing is frowned upon by Christmas society, but screw those greedy caroling bastards and their seasonal commercialism—it’s a great idea.

After such an outpouring of contempt and holiday-bashing I feel that I must close with a cheesy Scrooge-like epiphany and happy ending. This isn’t so hard to do—despite my general dislike for this season there is one year that stands out in my mind as the one time Christmas was really done right.

It was 1998 and my mother, my brothers and I had just begun the long journey of my parents’ divorce. Because we had just moved across town and were struggling to make ends meet my mother informed us that we would not have enough money for Christmas gifts. Too worn out to care, my brothers and I didn’t mourn this much, but I could tell that it made my mother miserable. She was struggling to keep us fed every day, we were all emotional wrecks and we didn’t even have plates and cups with which to eat our cheap-yet-nutritious spaghetti meals. (He took the dinnerware in the separation. We got the dining table. It’s okay to laugh—it’s funny now.) Anyway, it would have been the worst Christmas ever except for two things:

1. One week before Christmas we returned home to find that our former neighbors had broken in and vandalized our townhome in the holiday spirit. They brought a Christmas tree, lights and garlands and decorated our living room. We thought that was the greatest gift ever until we opened the giant box our grandparents shipped to us later that week.

2. Now, this box was the only one under the Christmas tree and although it was nice to have something to open on the holiday, based on past experiences none of us could really get that excited about it (white stirrup-pants, remember?). Steeling ourselves for more sweater-wear and a trip to the mall, on Christmas morning we all gathered around the box. But lo and behold, it was a complete dinner plate set, complete with glasses and bowls and teacups! We sat in a circle on the floor and reverently passed around each plate, glass and bowl, lovingly stacking them in neat piles on the floor like great towers of gold coins. This was truly a Christmas miracle—God had rained enormous willpower down upon my grandmother and with His help she had overcome her natural shopping instincts and bought us something extremely practical. That night we had spaghetti for the fourth time that week—but on our new plates. It was officially the best Christmas in the history of the world.

And we all lived happily ever after until the following year when we drove up to snow-covered Michigan and got reindeer-patterned sweaters for Christmas.

Ha. The End.