I hate Christmas. Not so much hate it any more as it makes me uncomfortable, and it no longer fills me with warm holiday feelings (for old, old reasons that I won't burden you with here today as they're beside the point). So it's either ironic or desperate that I cling to the tradition of putting up and decorating a Christmas tree every year since the late '80s. In the same spirit of irony, desperation, and with an added touch of anal-retentiveness, I keep carefully collected ornaments, each wrapped in tissue and stored in a nice sturdy box. When the tree goes up, the ornaments go on, and the fallout of tissue sheets get tossed into the box, waiting to be reused when the tree comes down. Today was that day.
The whole point of this post is the inevitable pondering that I go through every time I trudge through the rewrapping ritual. I wonder, each time I pick up a piece of crumpled tissue and pluck a glass ornament off the tree, if this particular ornament has ever met this particular piece of tissue before. It's a weird psychological fixation that locks up my brain during the process like a bad bit of computer code. I end up feeling mentally exhausted afterwards.
Yeah, that boy ain't right.
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