Monday, December 18, 2006

The holidays are almost upon us.

Well, actually, Hanukah has come but not yet gone; New Year’s is still a short while off; and Kwanzaa remains quietly lurking in the shadows, threatening to pounce the moment we dare to admit that despite our many years of multicultural education, we still don’t know exactly when (or what) it is. But Christmas is almost upon us and out in the real world, and it’s rather hard to overlook that fact. The moment Halloween passes, CVS has festooned its aisles with garish green-and-red tinsel and lined its shelves with Santa-themed bric-a-brac. A few weeks later, the supermarkets start playing “Winter Wonderland “on endless repeat and Salvation Army volunteers take the streets by storm, punctuating their “Merry Christmases” with loud bell-ringing to emphasize just how merry they really are. I’ve found Swarthmore often obfuscated the spirit of the season, perhaps recognizing that students toiling to complete three final projects during reading “week” might not appreciate jolly elf statuettes smirking at them as they walked from Parrish to Sharples. The real world clearly has no qualms with such displays of ostentatiousness.

Yet despite all this holiday hullabaloo, I’ve had a hard time mustering my usual cheer this winter. In the days of yore, I could buoy myself for weeks with visions of Lego sets and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures wrapped and piled under the Christmas tree. Now, off on my own, I find myself asking for boring, practical, home-oriented gifts: furniture, kitchenware, and the like, all the while knowing that however functional and durable and it might be, a colander will thrill me far less than, say, the gift of a (sadly, far less durable) rapid fire foam disc shooter once did. Colanders do not produce captivating whirring noises. They cannot launch airborne projectiles at one’s annoying younger siblings. In a pinch, maybe they could provide percussion in a makeshift kitchen band or serve as trendy, avant-garde headgear. Maybe. In all, excited as I will certainly be to liberate myself from the tyranny of straining pasta without appropriate cookware, I’ve had to acknowledge that my colander simply will not provide the same raw, unbridled entertainment that presents past once did. And so it is with many of the items on my wish list. A cheese shredder is no match for the Shredder. Assembling a living room chair won’t be the same as assembling a pirate ship.

I wonder sometimes whether my excitement will ever return for the presents under the Christmas tree. Whether once more firmly in adulthood, I’ll find myself sincerely agog over home furnishings or electronics. I can’t help but suspect that this is a mere fantasy, a suburban legend confined to the world of Best Buy ads. And honestly, would I even want to live in that saccharine world depicted in holiday advertisements? Where, when not mesmerized by the allure of HD TV, I’d be doting all over my wife, trading diamonds and cars for heartwarming smooches? It all seems so phony. How many wives actually awake on Christmas morning to find perfect new luxury sedans parked in their driveways? Wouldn’t they sometimes grouse over the paint color, the interior, or the selection of special features? And where ever do their husbands go to pick up those twenty-pound novelty bows? I can’t believe that even if this idealized world actually existed, it would restore joy to the gift-giving portion of the holiday season.

And yet I must admit, while the promise of neither drying racks nor electronics, furniture nor fondue sets, leaves me all a-tingle with excitement, I still find myself counting down to Christmas all the same. Last week, I bought a large bunch of bananas, one fruit for each day till I returned home for the holidays. Now I can’t help but feel a slight tinge of anticipation each time I peel one over my morning cereal. One day closer to family and Christmas trees and stockings and warm gingerbread! It’s like I’ve got my own yellow, mushy Advent calendar.

Thus, here I am, rolling my eyes at the ubiquitous Christmas kitsch (try saying that three times fast) and yawning at the presents under the tree, yet still looking forward to the holiday all this same. It’s almost as if—brace yourselves for this dramatic revelation—there’s some DEEPER meaning to the holiday than the material goods that defined it in my youth. Who’d have thunk it? For so many years I’d assumed those cheesy, moralistic Christmas specials were just propaganda to mollify kids who were getting crappy toys. Now I’m thinking otherwise.

So now I head home for the holidays happy, trusting that my faith in Christmas is not misplaced and that somewhere in the frenzy of gift-wrapping and caroling and milk-and-cookies, its true meaning will emerge and warm my heart. I will learn the joy of celebrating Christmas with the family as a mature, responsible adult. And if not, at least there’s always the ol’ foam disc shooter to break out.

Till next time, Happy Holidays good luck on finals,

Swattie Emeritus

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