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Golly, Look What I’m Missing!
My annual appreciation of The Season
Ask Siri what smug looks like and, yep, there’s my picture. I don’t deny it. How many gifts do I have left to buy before The Day? None. How many have I already bought? None. Did I get tested and tested again? Yes, but not to travel. You couldn’t pay me to get on a jet now and if you’re sweatin’ it, you have my sympathy.
Wait. Strike that.
No, you are choosing to participate in this annual obligatory madness. You can protest to the outskirts of town and back, but you do not have to buy stuff — nope, not even for the kiddies — and you do not have to spend The Day with anyone you aren’t ready to risk your health for. Or theirs.
But you and about fifteen kajillion other lemmings are ready to launch yourselves off the annual cliff.
How do I know so much about the joys of The Season? I used to be among the believers. After all, growing up in Ohio and Pennsylvania in the middle of the last century meant all good children are in bed early on Christmas eve. Christmas was CHRISTMAS in those days. Without fail, Jason Remington loaded the station wagon with presents, daughters, wife, and Lady Topsianna, our toy poodle, and hit the worst roads in Pennsylvania in the worst weather of the year to Spend Christmas At Home.
