I am starting to get into the Christmas spirit.
God help us all.
I am not by nature Christmasy. Actually, by nature I most resemble Squidward from Spongebob Squarepants, a resemblance that my mother occasionally calls me up to mention. Assuming that Squidward was allowed to quit retail and pursue his art career, and was much happier for it, it’d be a dead ringer. I’ve even got the nose and the nasal voice. (This was on my mind because there’s a certain time of day on Saturday when, if you’ve already seen the crappy Sci-Fi movie of the day, Spongebob is the only thing on.)
But anyway Christmas. I am feelin’ it. It might be that the air is the perfect temperature for Christmas–cold enough to have a bit of a bite, but warm enough to be completely negated by a coat. It might be this gingerbread tea I got, the taste of which I am ambivalent on, but the smell of which is divine.* It might be that I’m preparing to go up to the parents’ place for Thanksgiving. It may be that the slate-sided juncoes are bopping around on the roof, looking too picturesque for words, and requiring only tiny santa hats to plunge over the edge into the sort of adorable that makes you slit your wrists with a sharpened candy cane. It may be that I had a slice of pumpkin pie at the coffee shop the other day.
Regardless, I feel it. Like a snarky salmon who has been bitterly avoiding that whole swimming upstream thing for years, and mocking the other salmon, I am somewhat horrified to feel the twinge. It’s a subdued twinge. I will not get a tree. I will not wear holly in my hair. But I could see getting a tasteful wreath for the door, and even that is like leaping screaming into the abyss. Taped Christmas carols cannot be far behind. And then it’ll be a full-scale Christmas infestation, and there’ll be nothing for it but nailing up the doors and setting fire to the house.
Remember me fondly.
*This is also how I feel about chai. Taste doesn’t really work for me, but I love the smell.