The Grinch Wore Spandex
It has been approximately 7300 days since I stopped participating in the glorified annual countdown to Christmas.
The little girl who once was beside herself with joy at the mere prospect of opening another little window on her advent calendar has long since ripened into a cynical and melancholic 30 –somethinger who takes to anything remotely festive like a Gremlin does to water.
It is true - I have become a Grinch, a self-proclaimed sourpuss with not an ounce of jingle-bell merriness to be found in my miserable bones. I can’t pinpoint the precise moment of my descent into festive obscureness but an educated guess would deposit me somewhere in the late nineties where I found myself scared, alone and embarking on my first ever solo Christmas present procurement expedition.
You might think that my abundance of estrogen automatically qualifies me as a zealous shopper but alas, I am not. I could not imagine anything more traumatic than a shopping mall jam-packed with cantankerous beings seeking the perfect gift for individuals they may or may not give a rat’s ass about. The soppy pretenses and lackluster Boney M Christmas carols enthuses my only December shopping trip – to the nearest Clicks chemist for a hefty supply of antacid and whatever anti-gagging narcotic I can get my hands on.
I am simply not designed for standing in queues longer than Ben Hur nor do I find socializing with a perspiring pseudo-Santa in the least appealing. My idea of holiday fun is doing as little as possible, usually with a glass of semi-sweet in one hand and the TV remote in the other.
By now you probably think I am all whined-out right? WRONG! Queue the humble Christmas tree, which, on paper, seems like a cute and harmless institution. In my household we are yet to achieve Christmas tree longevity thanks to two fiends of the feline variety who make it their yearly mission to destroy our decorated sapling within hours of it being erected to within inches of haphazard glory. Come mid-December the coveted spot in the lounge once briefly adorned by a sparkly tree is nothing but a concourse for dust bunnies and the odd 8-legged creature. Once the tree goes down that’s it – I am no go-getting Christmas elf, I do not just ‘shrug and rebuild’. Instead I yelp, whimper and on occasion, weep.
Why can’t it snow here in December? Maybe I would be less petulant if my world was also covered in a blanket of icy white prettiness. I too want to make snow angels but instead I am forced to build sandcastles on a crowded beach in the scorching sun which leaves me blood red, blistered and belligerent.
By the time Christmas Eve arrives I am as crabby as a chubby kid at fat camp. With December being one of the hottest months in South Africa I am permanently covered in a not-so-attractive layer of perspiration. My hair is frizzy, I have bags under my eyes from the sleepless nights brought on by hordes of blood-lusting mosquitoes and what was left of my sense of humor died during the last bout of load-shedding. While the rest of the family-friend assembly indulge on dainty finger-food and cheap champagne I kill time by leaving sarcastic remarks on Facebook and secretly slugging away at the bottle of Russian Bear stashed among my underwear.
I know Christmas Day is supposed to be a big thing and I suppose it is, it is just not MY thing. The real reason for the season has long been replaced by kitsch decorations and a money-hungry retail sector. Long gone are the days of shortbread, mince pies, trifle and granny’s soetkoekies – A Quarter Pounder from Mc D’s is as festive as many is going to get on Christmas Day. Personally I would easily settle for a tray of sushi from Spar but the familia expects the whole festive shebang which takes a day to prepare and two to digest.
Christmas is definitely a pro-testosterone holiday! While the men sit around exchanging camp-fire tales and finishing off the second case of Castle Lite the women are slaving away in the kitchen or trying to defuse the war that has ensued between the kids over the newly acquired Playstation 4. Later, when all children and men are safely tucked into bed it is us womenfolk who are responsible for returning the homestead to its previous, pre-Christmas glory. Nothing like a bit of Hoovering at 10pm to send one over the edge of festive insanity.
Come New Year’s and all that remains of Christmas is a heap of broken toys, a mountain of uneaten Christmas cake and an unavoidable feeling of dread brought on by a stack of newly-arrived credit card statements.
While everyone is meditating on the most effective way to cook the turkey I will be contemplating whether or not there will be space for my head in the oven next to said turkey. Dramatic, I know, but I have to work my God-given talents when the opportunity arises.
I probably have enough rant left in me to continue for at least 23782 more words but I won’t keep you any longer. I know you have presents to wrap and elves to shelf and that by now my lack of enthusiasm has left you on the verge of an aneurysm.
Whether you celebrate a traditional Christmas full of cheer or just try and survive the December holidays, dress up in your finest or sit under a cold shower crying over a box of Four Cousins be sure to make it count! Spend time with the people that matter, eat till you are about to burst and laugh till your stomach hurts.
From the Sphinxed family to yours - Have a super Silly Season & stay safe!
