Christmas is yet again packed up in a box and ready to be shoved through the loft hatch where it will collect dust and mouse droppings for another year. I hope we all had a jolly good time. This is as positive and upbeat that this post will get, so if you are still bathing in the warm glow of December 25th and the scent of that special Christmas candle you bought is still wafting around your nostrils, it is probably best not to continue reading.
It was my daughters first Christmas and at ten months old I naively thought she would notice the subtle differences in her habitat, like the large tree in the corner of the living room that suddenly appeared, with its twinkly lights and an assortment of dangly objects. I thought she may have noticed the abundance of greetings cards hanging from the mantelpiece or any other piece of furniture that boasts a ledge. She didn’t even pick up on the fact that Mummy and Daddy were stressing more than usual, trying to co-ordinate her first Christmas. She was oblivious to most of these abnormalities, apart from the Christmas lights, which held a modicum of fascination. All she really wanted to do was just carry on with her life as per normal.
So you can imagine that she was totally bemused on Christmas day morning. I could read her mind, all she wanted was to be treated normally, she didn’t want the big box, neatly wrapped in festive red paper. She didn’t care much for the bow placed in the corner that Daddy struggled to make stick, although it did look rather tasty. She didn’t want a video camera shoved in her face at 7am, capturing memories of her tangled and tussled bed hair, her slightly drippy nose and her rather fetching pink onesie. She knew that this video footage would be used to embarrass her in years to come when she starts to bring the opposite sex home. She didn’t want any of this, but we insisted that she did. She soon made her feelings quite clear, a temper tantrum and some low pitched whining did the trick. All she wanted was her morning milk, followed by a spot of porridge and then to be left to her own devices. She wanted to play freely, without restraint.
My wife and I knew from that very moment that this Christmas break was going to be very different to the 14 we had shared previously. On reflection though, my daughter had a very good point, which has now left me bemused, much like she was on Christmas and Boxing day. I ask the question, ‘What is all the fuss about?’
Before I fully make my point, I want to clarify that I look upon Christmas from a consumerist point of view. I am an atheist, but fully understand the significance of this period in the Christian calendar. I also understand, for Christians and non-believer’s alike it represents time to spend with loved ones, if anything it gives people an excuse to reconnect with the family. That is exactly what we did and I wouldn’t wish it to be any different.
However, none of this explains why I felt the need to transform into a gluttonous and greedy human being, just because of what time of year it is. Would I normally eat 4 segments of Terry’s Chocolate Orange before 8am in the morning? No I wouldn’t. Do I normally eat a bag of cheese and pickle flavoured nuts in one sitting? No, I wouldn’t. Would I choose to eat Turkey any other day? No I wouldn’t. Would I then eat it 4 days in a row because I didn’t want to waste any? The answer to that is no. Would I drink alcohol in copious amounts? Well, yes I would actually, but that’s beside the point.
There is no comprehensible reason why I would do this to myself other than blaming it solely on Christmas. Now my guilty conscience and my immune system tell me I’m a bad boy with a terrible case of scurvy. I can’t physically eat enough fruit and veg to reverse the decline.
Next year, I have decided to be one step ahead of the game. Now my gripe is available on the web, I will set a reminder to read it again in December 2013, just before the festive period. I’ll probably ignore the warning from my past self and crack open a tin of twiglets just to get in the swing of things.