It’s that time of the year again, folks: it’s Christmas. For members of my family, the Christmas season begins with Thanksgiving and ends with New Year. In the span of roughly one month, we watch Christmas movie marathons of Olympic length, wear truly horrendous sweaters that we should be ashamed of (can you embarass the shameless?), and drink enough eggnog to drown a herd of reindeer (do reindeer travel in herds? Or is it packs? Gaggles?).
I am an unapologetic Christmas Freak. I am that person who sings Christmas songs in the grocery store, the one you want to strangle because they’re going through all fourteen verses of “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” while standing in front of the jam selection. I am that person who really does answer the phone like Buddy the Elf (“What’s your favorite color?”), who walks around in a sort of tinsel-draped haze, spurred on by massive consumption of Christmas goodies and eggnog. I am every sane person’s worst nightmare during this season, and you know what?
I don’t care.
I would not describe myself as a wide-eyed optimist by any means, but I do believe in the spirit of Christmas. For thh month of December, my normal pessimism is magically transformed into peppermint-flavored joy. For the month of December, I DO believe in Santa Claus, thank you very much. I also believe in goodwill towards men, women, children and various furry creatures. At the age of 21, I still always believe that I will see a white Christmas – a rare occurance in North Carolina, let me say.
Now, while I do appreciate the religious holiday, that’s not really the “Christmas” I am speaking of. The holiday season transcends religious, racial, and cultural institutions, as well as the commercialization of December 25th. There is something about this season, a sort of crackling in the air, a feeling of possibility in the ringing in of the New Year.
I believe in Christmas, and the world can’t do nothin’ about it. So there.