O P I N I O N
In the words of the Gen. X demigod, former Nirvana drummer and Foo Fighters’ frontman Dave Grohl: “I’ve got another confession to make.”
Here is my confession: I love Christmas music and Christmas decorations.
There. I said it. I’ve ripped off my sartorial coverings and exposed my nakedness to the world.
I understand that it is 2023, and I should not feel emasculated by my appreciation for red velvet bows on well-trimmed wreaths.
And I don’t.
I also should not feel ashamed if my finger lingers a little too long over the radio dial when I’m driving and come across one of those Christmas music stations, the ones who pipe through a steady diet of Dionne Warwick and Air Supply for the other 11 months of the year at dentist offices.
And I don’t.
What makes this a dirty little secret for me is that my love for Christmas music and decorations runs antithetical to the wise-ass, cynical disposition I try to cultivate for most of the calendar year. It’s as if the moment I rinse my Thanksgiving dinner plate and place it in the dishwasher, I turn into Buddy the Elf.
This year, I decided to go full-throttle with decorating the only space in the known world that I can call my own and Christmas-pimped the Man Cave © [1]. The idea started when I discovered that my daughter left behind a box of Christmas decorations from her dorm room last year.
The box contained a small plastic tree with a string of lights, a velvet red bow and a twelve-foot string of plastic green garland. These decorations proved to be fine compliments to the stuffed Santa Claus and the flat wooden Christmas trees that we inherited from my mother-in-law, as well as the plastic wreath that was left in the basement when we bought the house.
While Christmas-pimping the Man Cave ©, I listened to a three-and-a-half-hour classic Christmas playlist that I downloaded on Spotify after finally springing for the Premium plan. I was like Bing Freaking Crosby hanging my decorations, playing my Christmas tunes then relaxing with a Bud Light on the futon, admiring my work.
It then occurred to me, with all of this contrived Christmas cheer, that maybe I’m subconsciously trying to combat Seasonal Affective Disorder, which starts to take a terrible stranglehold on me as we approach the winter solstice.
Or maybe I just like Christmas stuff—something I’ve long tried to deny—although I’ve always had a disdain for the prescribed idea of exchanging gifts. If I see something that I really think a loved one would appreciate, I will buy it for them, regardless of the time of year.
I’m also not into stringing exterior lights on the house and trees, or having giant inflatable snowmen standing like sentries in my front lawn, where I’ve yet to rake the leaves.
But I can get behind the idea of celebrating a season that encourages peace on Earth and kindness to others in a world that’s starving for it right now.
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[1] I am copyrighting this term. If you try to use “Christmas-pimp the Man Cave,” you will be hearing from my lawyers.
