If Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year, the first days of January must be the most miserable. Why? Is this the time? The overwhelming feeling that you’ve already broken all the resolutions you’ve made for New Years Eve?
Or the fact that most of the Christmas toys you bought for kids just a few weeks ago need new batteries or have lost key parts?
No, these are the Christmas decorations. They have to come down. There is no more dreaded work in my house. I prefer to clean my dryer’s lint tray with tweezers. I prefer to water sick circus elephants.
Why, oh why, did I put so much stuff on that tree? What happened to me sprinkling merry holiday trinkets all over the house? When I walk around my house, it’s like every little ceramic Santa Claus is “Ho-Ho” and shows me a fur mitten:
“It’s time to pack ourselves up and box ourselves in and put these boxes in bigger boxes and tape them up and haul them down those rickety stairs in the damp attic!” They hiss.
Following:Sleepwalker through our own decline
Innocent Angel’s eyes take on malicious reflections. They have done everything they are going to do this winter. Sequins trail at the bottom of their dresses like geriatric dandruff. When I pass in front of them, I sometimes have the impression of seeing a harp tremble as if to come crashing into an angelic knee.
Will a halo turn towards my head one of these January mornings, slicing their message of guilty contempt in the face of my refusal to put them back in their boxes?
It has to be done. I have to get the tree out of the living room. There is no place to go from the sofa to the front door without crossing the piano bench. I didn’t mind a few weeks ago. From now on, I categorically refuse to navigate on an obstacle course to leave my home.
For the past few days, I’ve been plowing the tree disregarding all the adornments jingling against each other when my back tips them into a manic twist.
They were precious memories in December, all brilliant and full of nostalgia. But now, in January, I dream of a rifle filled with gritty buckshot. A BLAM, and they would all be suckable confetti.
I have just enough goodwill in my bones to repackage the trimmings and adornments and just enough energy to suck up the crooked garlands that have crept into every room of the house. I pulled out a wick from my hairbrush this morning. Or maybe it was more gray hair.
By the time you read this, I will have emptied my house of all the Christmas things. I will have growled orders from Grinchy to my relatives:
“GRAB THIS CHERUB AND INSERT IT IN THIS BAG. JUST STOP THE LIGHTS AND FORCE THEM WITH THE TREE… WE UNTANGLE THEM NEXT NOL. EAT ANOTHER CANE, DARN IT… THEY ARE STILL GOOD AND WE DIDN’T. LET’S NOT WASTE THEM! “
I don’t want to celebrate anything for a while now. I just want to watch January’s “Winter Wonderland” and rest. Ho. Ho. Ho. Whatever.
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