Perhaps I shall write a story...
The Christmas spirit accosted me like the lotion salesman at a mall kiosk.
“No, you may not ask me a question. You have no desire to hear the answer; you are merely practicing a learned method of luring innocent people who need a new bra into meeting your handshake in order for you to turn over the offending hand, cracked with the effects of chill air and dry artificial heat, and demand that they try your lotion to address that unsightly problem. I have no wish to fall prey to your tactics again, and so I will stupidly declare that you may not ask me a question!”
Everywhere synthetic trees stood weirdly tall and cone-like atop buildings; festive wreath stickers brightened otherwise industrial-looking glass doors; and no one seemed to notice that Styrofoam snow littered shop windows looking out on sun-drenched sidewalks where customers hurried about in sleeveless tops. The ludicrousy of the set up made me smirk, and then filled my chest with a slight bubble of dejection and pity; I sat back to assess.
It couldn’t just be a reaction to marketing strategy that we were all anticipating Christmas the first week of November - though doubtless a little greed for additional profits played a significant role in bringing about the phenomenon. But a café doesn’t succeed in making $3.85 for a cup of “special holiday” apple cider except that something within that poor victim of robbery-with-a-smile calls out for what that extra drizzle of caramel represents.
Was is possible that we had dedicated almost a fourth of our year to “the holidays” because we needed something to look forward to, something to remind us of childhood and fill our thoughts with sweet escape from the morose dailiness of work and school?
And then I realized that for the first time I too was participating in the hype, embracing the escape, desperately grasping for the same artificial excitement I had always regarded as silliness in years past. I too had bought - and enjoyed - a caramel apple cider. This depressed me.
Smirk completely gone now, I saw myself becoming, no, not even becoming, I was one of those people who were depressed by Christmas, one of those ridiculous spinsters who binged on holiday chocolates because they were lonely and had no direction in life. (I had a firm grasp of the nature of such women because I had met several of them - on screen at least, if not exactly off) I knew now that Christmas would be a terrible thing. And, damn it! The blasted holiday was still a full two months away! I would gain ten pounds before this was over.
…perhaps I had gone a bit far.
I broke off my train of thought to reach into my purse and smear my hands with a good amount of blue lotion made from the ashes of a volcano somewhere in Central America - after all, it was at least cold enough for my hands to be chapped, maybe Christmas was approaching.
“No, you may not ask me a question. You have no desire to hear the answer; you are merely practicing a learned method of luring innocent people who need a new bra into meeting your handshake in order for you to turn over the offending hand, cracked with the effects of chill air and dry artificial heat, and demand that they try your lotion to address that unsightly problem. I have no wish to fall prey to your tactics again, and so I will stupidly declare that you may not ask me a question!”
Everywhere synthetic trees stood weirdly tall and cone-like atop buildings; festive wreath stickers brightened otherwise industrial-looking glass doors; and no one seemed to notice that Styrofoam snow littered shop windows looking out on sun-drenched sidewalks where customers hurried about in sleeveless tops. The ludicrousy of the set up made me smirk, and then filled my chest with a slight bubble of dejection and pity; I sat back to assess.
It couldn’t just be a reaction to marketing strategy that we were all anticipating Christmas the first week of November - though doubtless a little greed for additional profits played a significant role in bringing about the phenomenon. But a café doesn’t succeed in making $3.85 for a cup of “special holiday” apple cider except that something within that poor victim of robbery-with-a-smile calls out for what that extra drizzle of caramel represents.
Was is possible that we had dedicated almost a fourth of our year to “the holidays” because we needed something to look forward to, something to remind us of childhood and fill our thoughts with sweet escape from the morose dailiness of work and school?
And then I realized that for the first time I too was participating in the hype, embracing the escape, desperately grasping for the same artificial excitement I had always regarded as silliness in years past. I too had bought - and enjoyed - a caramel apple cider. This depressed me.
Smirk completely gone now, I saw myself becoming, no, not even becoming, I was one of those people who were depressed by Christmas, one of those ridiculous spinsters who binged on holiday chocolates because they were lonely and had no direction in life. (I had a firm grasp of the nature of such women because I had met several of them - on screen at least, if not exactly off) I knew now that Christmas would be a terrible thing. And, damn it! The blasted holiday was still a full two months away! I would gain ten pounds before this was over.
…perhaps I had gone a bit far.
I broke off my train of thought to reach into my purse and smear my hands with a good amount of blue lotion made from the ashes of a volcano somewhere in Central America - after all, it was at least cold enough for my hands to be chapped, maybe Christmas was approaching.