Here we are on the first Monday after Thanksgiving. Sadly, my waistline did significantly more expanding than my horizons but, equally as sad, I am not disappointed by this. Having returned home from the holiday we have entered into the yearly event that has the potential to cause more harm and consternation than being around me after consuming copious amounts of Mexican food…decorating the house for Christmas.
Every year starts basically the same. We go out to the local tree farm, pick out a tree and haul it home. Spirits are high was we erect the beautiful tree in its stand and cut the plastic wiring that kept it from expanding like a sponge in water. We put water in the base and then spend the next several hours in a failing attempt at removing the sap from our hands. Our spirits, still impressively high, take a slight hit as we determine that everything in the living room will be sticky for the next several months.
My wife was kind enough to buy one of those new fandangled Star Shower machines that projects Christmas lights onto our house. I love this ideas as we can decorate our house without my having to open a new life insurance policy before getting on a ladder and accidentally hurling myself to the ground at an increasing amount of speed due to gravity and the increasingly expanding waistline previously mentioned.
Then it began…
As if arriving from the cosmic ether, large and cumbersome boxes starting appearing in the living room. First one, then two, then thirty-eight, these invaders from IKEA storage began to take over the entire room. I had no idea what was in them, but the bright red and green plastic told me it had something to do with the yuletide season.
Like Star Trek tribbles (but less cute), the boxes multiplied and began to encroach on the holiest of living room furniture items…my recliner. I began to panic and cried out to our dog for help, but he disappeared and is presumed packed. The cat was no help as she just climbed on top of the highest box and simply mocked my rapidly deteriorating situation.
My wife assured me that this was natural and it’d all be okay, but I took this to be in the spirit of telling a man dying of blood loss as a result of having lost all his limbs in a tragic Superglue and nailgun accident that he’s “gonna be okay.” I know the truth, however, this is it. My fate is to drown in a sea of plastic boxes and campy Christmas trinkets.
If only there were eight reindeer (go ahead and name them…I dare ya!) and not nine with Rudolph. I would have survived if that red nose of his didn’t block my airway as I sink in this impenetrable pile of Decorations of Doom!