Have I mentioned before how much I dislike Christmas? I always turn a blah'ish shade of blue this time of year.
Please don't boo. It's not polite.
Family squabbles, hectic schedules, silly looking sweaters, countless parties, shopping, and let's not forget all that pressure to have a blinged out house and give rockin' cool gifts at the office -- not looking forward to it.
Don't you dare call me Scrooge or Grinch!
You're a writer. You can do better.
Besides, why don't people like Chia pets? I mean, really. Why? That Scooby Doo one is awesome! He'd look great in that space I'm saving for my Pulitzer. I only need something temporary there anyway.
But I get candy. Lots of it. Jars and cans and boxes and bags of every twisted, gnarly lookin' candy to ever leave a Dollar General store. Ever notice how stale candy smells like a hot glue gun?
I know. That's not very gracious of me.
You see, I'm a church girl and if Christmas really was only about singing carols and doing good will toward men, I'd enjoy it more. But it's not. It's also about that intern with the twinkling tie, that secretary in the jingle bell socks and that office nerd with the terrible body odor who wears that stupid mistletoe hat.
Yeah, his name really is Dwight and if I had a Chia pet, I'd knock him upside the head with it. Take that! And, that! And that! You twig wearing, muttonhead! Ask Santa for some Right Guard!
Christmas makes me grumpy.
But every year, something else happens, too. Some unlikely somebody does some remarkable something that is so unselfish and surprising, it restores my faith in humanity. One year, it was a handful of $1000 cashier checks for me to distribute to families as I saw fit. Another year it was an eighteen wheeler that somebody backed up to Toys R Us and said, "go get what you need, here's my credit card". And, every year, every single child on our community angel tree gets adopted.
Where do these kind souls come from? I don't know. But, they come.
So, as much as I loathe the pomp and vulgarity of the season, I'm also waiting -- anxious and expectant like a kid who knows Santa will come -- to find out what Christmas miracle I'll witness this year.
Who will it be? What will he bring?
Doesn't matter, as long as it isn't candy.