When you reach a certain age, Christmas is about the past more than the present. Or presents. Maybe it’s just me, but anymore I find myself staring off into my Technicolor memories while sipping from my spiked eggnog. I’d swear my mother’s house used to be a damn castle. Each room was cavernous, and yet full of relatives, chatter, and amusement. My mother’s family was a lot more Rockwellian than we ever would have admitted. Maybe they were just the third-generation-Czechoslovakian version of Rockwellian.
It’s a strange paradox to look back fondly upon the days when Christmas music actually meant something to you, while simultaneously wishing you could hear any one of Springsteen’s darker chords instead of Burl Ives’ jolliest.
No history book seems to support me, but I’m convinced scotch was invented by some poor bastard who yearned for aid in facing yet another relative asking why he hadn’t “made his life complete” by tying himself to the wrong person for a lifetime, or why he hadn’t “given his life meaning” by living with the consequences of not pulling out.
A toast, to anyone who has had to choke down a “go fuck yourself” at a dinner table, humor a stupid question about their meandering career path, or pretend to care about an in-law over the last several days.
Don’t worry, the pain is temporary. This is why the Floating Spaghetti Monster gave us New Year’s Eve: so we can drink away any lingering facial tick brought about by spending time with family during the final ten days of the year. Salud.