|Hating Xmas (standard:other, 553 words)|
|Author: A.E. Sadler||Added: Aug 17 2001||Views/Reads: 1835/1||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Christmas can be hell.|
HATING XMAS By A.E. Sadler God, I hate Christmas. I'm still recovering from it. And it's March. I guess that's un-Christian or un-American or un-something to say, huh? Maybe if you had my family you'd understand. Like crazy Aunt Linda who blasts Chanukah music and then gets mad at us for not knowing the words. As if it isn't Christmas that we've traditionally celebrated all of our lives. How are we supposed to know about Chanukah, for Chrissake? Like my brother and sister, who both deplore Aunt Linda and are always trying to kick her dog when she's not looking. My brother hates Christmas. "It's Christmas and fuck you," says the seasonal greeting he leaves on his answering machine. See, in my family everyone wants a piece of you. I'm not talking extremities here. I'm talking vital organs. I spent Christmas with strangers last year. Which, if you knew my crazy family, you'd probably say was a blessing. Except that it got a little more geographic than I'd had in mind. It had me driving through the deserts of Arizona and California, into the mountains, through a snow blizzard, into the barrios of Los Angeles, staying in cheap motels where the desk clerk checked me into a room that was already occupied. All to please everybody. For Christmas. Or Chanukah. Or whatever. Helluva Christmas, huh? But actually, it wasn't so bad. I know that must sound hard to believe. But.... Last Christmas I was in love. He gave me...he gave me this really beautiful moment. I was standing in the store window, looking at him. Bing Crosby was singing "White Christmas" from some invisible speakers, and in my living room at home there were Christmas lights and sparkling red taper candles and hidden away the stocking I was making with his name embroidered on it. I was still deciding what to stuff it with, and here we were on this one night. He on one side of the glass, outside, finishing his cigarette, and me on the other. Sailing on each other's smile. Sailing and smiling and smiling and...looking like a couple of dopes probably, until finally I think maybe one of us had better stop before the whole thing dissolved into something too embarrassing to be romantic any more. So I turn away distracting myself with the first object that catches my eye, a glass ball with flakes of gold inside. You know, like the kind you used to shake when you were a kid to see it snow. Only this one snowed flakes of gold. Fourteen carat gold. I pick it up, holding it to the light and watching the gold glimmers drift to the bottom. This was before the Tempe desert and the Coachella Valley and central California and the snow storm and the barrios and the funky motel room that was already occupied. The tour of duty exhausted us but somehow we managed to be home in time to open our gifts together on Christmas morning. He complained about how impossible I am to buy for. "You don't collect anything. You aren't materialistic. You donít want anything...." I unwrap his gift and suddenly I see it again. It's the little glass ball with the golden snowflakes, floating around as if in a dream. And sparkling all the way. ### Tweet
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