Christmas Morning

Around holidays, Americans tend to adopt three mindsets. Some swoon over the quaint decorations and nostalgically embrace snow-laden pastimes. More high-strung people approach Christmas with a competitive mindset. They live for the stress and thrill of Black Friday shopping, only feeling fulfilled if they have successfully pried the most wanted toy of the season out from the bludgeoned hands of a weaker shopper in a survival-of-the-fittest sense of holiday cheer.






I experience Christmas in an entirely different way. I feel a twinge of disgust in my gut each time I see a temporarily psychopathic shopaholic on a mission or a house that is just as bright at night as it is during the day. I struggle to snuff out my fiery cynicism. The few things I do like about Christmas--vacation, family, and love--often seem to be at the bottom of most people’s “Wish List.” Either way, I brace myself for a bitter cold, occasionally nauseatingly nostalgic, time. By “brace,” I mean complain and utterly suffer to the point of extinction.






Even though the first weekend in November is not known for its appalling weather or garish manifestations of Christmas spirit, my residence hall felt the need hang shimmering tinsels, sparkling lights, and tacky ornamental balls around our lobby at 2:30 a.m. in order to surprise the residents. Due to the deadly combination of a holiday-hating heart, a long day, and Halloween having just ended, I was a little irritated. The cherry on top of this already soggy, undercooked cake was the music being piped through the lobby’s scratchy stereo system. The lineup included songs about a rose-nosed forest creature, an implausible man made of snow, and a small child whose barefoot mother is dying of cancer.
My thought process went a little like this:

“Why the HECK am I awake right now?”

“I hate these ornaments.”

“I hate these freaking songs!”

“I have no holiday spirit.”

“This is simply an omen of the deathly cold to come.”




And that was how my dorm burned down.