This I Believe:
I will all do it again next year
So it is only December 4th and I am already exhausted. Sometimes, when I am stuck in traffic caused by the blizzard of holiday gluttony, I think about the original intent of Christmas. At times it takes me a while to remember why I am doing all of this, especially if there is heavy traffic.
There must be a reason I eagerly offer up my health (and sanity) to the God of mall germs and microbes. (If I had a dollar for every salesperson who sneezed on my change before handing it back to me I’d have zero balance Visa card bill in January.)
There must be a reason I gave myself repetitive motion and carpal tunnel from the Internet eshopping I did on black Friday. Or why I have a burning sensation at the pit of my stomach that is likely an ulcer caused by what to buy for my mother-in-law, the woman who already has everything. Except her son (I’ve got him).
There must be a reason my head rings with Salvation Army bells. This dull resonance is punctuated by pealing screams of horror as children sit with Santa.
My throat is sore from telling people not to buy my son too much. As the golden first grandchild who will experience his first Christmas, there is an incessant onslaught of inquiries about what he wants for Christmas. I tell people to save their empty Kleenex boxes as he finds them particularly interesting these days. At twelve months old, he’ll just try to eat the wrapping paper and undoubtedly find that the most exciting part of the holiday.
Let me get back to my original point. Suffering. I believe we willingly submit to the chaos of Christmas because we love those around us and want nothing but the best for them. I believe we are not to simply rejoice but to give up a little bit of ourselves this holiday season.
On the night of December 25th, I will pack up my goodies after opening them at Grammas. She’ll wave from her little window and wink at me. I smile, knowing she too is jubilant not to be sneezed on by a salesgirl for at least another ten months.
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