I am not a Scrooge.
OK–even though typing those words once makes me feel like I should be hunching my shoulders, furrowing my brow and flashing dueling “peace” signs, recent accusations to the contrary (you know who you are) make it necessary for me to repeat it: I am not a Scrooge. Really, I love Christmas. I love the cookies, the lights, the cookies, the parties, the cookies, wrapping presents, the cookies, addressing Christmas cards–did I mention the cookies?–I love almost everything, in fact, that Christmas has to offer, except for one little thing: the tree.
There. I said it: I don’t like Christmas trees. Oh, I like the idea of a Christmas tree; I like traipsing out into the woods with our trusty saw and even trustier Thermos of heavily-spiked coffee (and cookies). I like pulling out all of the old family ornaments and explaining once again that the reason we are hanging up half an ancient toilet paper roll with four pieces of glitter stuck to the bottom is that I can still remember when my sister and I made those ornaments, and yes, it really is supposed to be Snoopy dressed as Rudolph, thank you very much. I even like sitting out next to the tree late at night or early in the morning and watching all of the colored lights flashing on and off in the dark like some arboreal distress call. I like all of these things, and yet, really, I don’t like Christmas trees; or, to be more precise, I don’t like post-Christmas trees.
Is there anything more pathetic than a Christmas tree once all of the presents have been opened? Let’s be honest: like a turkey carcass the day after Thanksgiving, or a party girl the morning of New Year’s, a present-less Christmas tree is just living on our sufferance until it is finally time for it to be kicked to the curb. It is the very essence of potential wasted: whereas before Christmas you might look at that tree and think of all the possibilities: maybe Grandma and Grandpa hid a college fund in one of those envelopes; maybe your spouse took the subtle hint (catalog opened, item number circled, phone and credit card close at hand) and got you that sexy nightgown you have been eying; maybe you even took his not-so-subtle hint and got him that iPod. After Christmas, however, all possibility is over: not a college fund, but a 1700 piece Lite Brite set; not the sexy lingerie from Victoria’s Secret, but a flannel granny gown from J.C.Penney; and instead of the iPod, just another package of tube socks.
I know: none of this is the Christmas tree’s fault, but somehow, my disappointment and the Christmas tree’s presence always seem to go hand in hand. (Or limb in limb–whatever.) Of course, the tree isn’t helping itself any when immediately following the Big Day it begins to wantonly throw dry pine needles all over the place. (Although, actually, this is one of a Christmas tree’s habits that I can relate to–after all, if someone pulled me from out of my home in the middle of the night, dragged me off to their living room and then crucified me in the corner, I would probably throw stuff at them, too–the kind of stuff that makes stepping barefoot on a pine needle in the middle of the night seem downright pleasant).
The thing is, like so many of my quirks, my Christmas tree animosity was never a problem until my children got older ( for years they thought it was normal to drag the Christmas tree out to the curb by 9:00 am Christmas morning). Now though, thanks to their age and the accusations of certain of their friends’ parents (again, you know who you are), they have started campaigning to leave our tree up later in the season. There’s even been talk of January. January! All I can say to that is: bah humbug. Oh, and once again: I am not a Scrooge.