When I was a kid, I never slept well the night before Christmas, but not for the obvious reasons. That poem, “’Twas the Night Before Christmas,” which in my mind was all about a home invasion, scared the bejesus out of me and kept me up until the wee hours. As an adult, I’ve never slept well, either, filled with dread at the prospect of close social encounters with what seemed like hundreds of relatives the following day. I’m a creature of habit and can’t tolerate anything that throws me off my normal routine. That’s why I detest all holidays, but none as much as Christmas.
There’s the loathsome music. The movies with their ridiculous, treacly sentiments. The presents—thinking about them, shopping for them (never without resentment), and the attendant pile of garbage that accumulates from opening them, an environmental disaster simultaneously taking place in living rooms across the country. There’s also the faux bonhomie and nonsensical holiday spirit that dissolves the next day as quickly as an Alka-Seltzer. And let’s not forget the barrage of “Merry Christmas!”s and “Happy holidays!” that must be returned like unwanted “I love you”s.
