Christmas has never been my favourite time of year. Like the freezing winter wind that whips down Bloor Street, it is something I endure. Last year, a few days before Christmas, a bout of bronchitis knocked me flat. Shortly after New Year's, I arose from my bed and discovered I had missed practically the entire holiday season. What a relief!
I suspect that my ambivalence about Christmas is widely shared. I like the rituals, but I hate the obligations. The tree, the decorating, the food, the gifts, the wrapping, the parties, friends and families, the visits, the hosting and the driving often feel more like a chore than a break. The merriment on cue can be a pain. The galloping consumerism and tinny songs are offensive and banal. But the worst of it is that I always feel I'm falling short.
"I had the Christmas dream again," I told my husband the other day. "You know – the dream when you haven't done your shopping yet and you're running through molasses to find the store and it's Christmas Eve and the store closes in 10 minutes."
"Huh," he said. "I never have that dream."
The fact that Christmas is largely women's work is not exactly fresh news. The men may be the ones who put the tree up, but we're the ones who feel responsible for everybody's happiness. It's fashionable but not useful to blame the patriarchy for this. Look in the mirror, ladies. We've internalized our guilt. Don't blame men. Blame evolution.
In my experience, women start worrying about Christmas shortly after Halloween. Many of us have been stashing hostess gifts all year – jams, jellies, the useless doodads you get at craft shows. We are acutely sensitive to the nuances of social gifting and we're terrified of running short. Some time in mid-December, our gathering instincts go into overdrive.
Men don't wake up until Dec. 21. "What do you want for Christmas?" my husband asked a day or two ago.
"I can't think of anything," I said. I was too worn out from shopping to care.
"Well, then maybe we should just skip the gifts this year," he said.
"Absolutely not!" I said, hurt. Christmas wouldn't be the same without a ritual gift exchange between two people who have everything they need and too much stuff already. Besides, the stuff I'd bought for him was already piled in the closet.
As with most men, my husband is easy to shop for. A snappy shirt, some books and a good cigar or two will always make him happy. I'm more problematic. I never have a clue what, if anything, will make me happy. So he has to guess.
"What about a pasta maker?" he asked hopefully. I told him no.
Actually, I've been enjoying Christmas a lot more lately than I used to. I've realized that nobody but me can subdue my inner grinch. The first trick is to know what it is you really want. For many years, I thought the key to Christmas bliss was to outdo Martha Stewart. So I baked cookies, tried making things with pine cones, gave clever little cocktail parties and wore homemade sweaters with reindeer on them. None of it was me. I hated every minute. Today, I buy the cookies, wear baggy sweatshirts from Joe Fresh, and lie on the couch reading books and being anti-social. My halls are undecked with boughs of holly, or much else for that matter. A few years ago, my husband and I looked at each other and said, "Do we really want a tree?" We decided we did not. What we really wanted were a few dogwood branches, stuck in an old vase and hung with a goofy-looking dancing pig in a tutu. So that's what we have.
The second trick is to make peace with your extended family. Yes, them. The people in whom all your flaws are magnified and mirrored because you are related to them. The trick is to love them as they are and hope they'll return the favour. It's amazing how long it took for me to learn this simple lesson. I used to think that everybody else's family was far more agreeable, well-adjusted and normal than my own. Now I know that was an illusion. Other people's families only seem normal because you don't know them very well.
The third trick is to lower your expectations. That way you are sure to be pleasantly surprised by just about everything. The fourth is to go sing Christmas carols somewhere. Put some money in the Salvation Army kettle. Give a fifty-dollar-bill to the old guy in the tattered coat who sits in Starbucks all winter. Try to stop living in your head. And one ordinary day outside the grocery store, the tinny Christmas music will be playing, and the snow will be glistening on the planters full of pine boughs and red ribbons, and you will feel a short, sharp shot of pure, unexpected joy.