It has finally happened.
You see, I am an extremely selfish person. I always have been. So it was that, back deep in my childhood, the Christmases were pretty much all about me and what and how many presents I would receive. Even now, for the majority of the year, I waffle between hedonism and narcissism. (You’d have never guessed, I’m sure… what with this blog being so lofty, humble and other-centered.) But lately the holiday seasons have been having a wondrous — miraculous, even — effect on my otherwise grossly self-serving nature.
Just after Thanksgiving, when I am beginning to flesh out my x-mas lists, shopping seems like an arduous chore. I stall. I procrastinate. And finally, motivated by time’s crafty velocity, I force myself to wade into the sea of consumer-culture humanity and start buying things. The first few outings are irritating adventures — more fact-finding missions than actual shopping trips. But at some point the transformation takes place. I start taking pleasure in the process. I have loads of fun finding little goodies for my fake nieces and nephews. I begin to imagine my wife’s face, her reaction, her (dare I say?) delight when she opens her gifts. I revel in setting a spending limit and then purposefully spitting in the face of fiscal restraint. I become the master of the grand gesture. And I love it!
By God, it’s the "holiday spirit" and I’ve got it!
…
(Now if the families could just be civil and rational and stick to the rules, everything would be carols, chestnuts and Christmas-cheer perfect.)