I love Christmas. Maybe that’s the problem … I love it too much.
I have such fond memories of my childhood Christmases that every year I try to recapture that same magic. And every year the little disappointments start immediately after the Thanksgiving dinner dishes are cleared way.
I love Christmas so much that I have two Christmas trees in my little apartment. One in the living room, another, smaller tree, stands in my bedroom with white lights and a country theme. Regardless of my parents’ fear that it will catch on fire and burn my apartment down, I will always go to sleep each holiday to the twinkling lights of my bedroom Christmas tree.
Last year at this time, while enjoying some holiday cheer with my co-workers, I spied a cutie at the other end of the bar. He and I chatted for a while. We shared the same childhood excitement about the upcoming holiday. I was sure we were destined for each other. This guy had not two trees…not three or four trees…but seven Christmas trees in his house! I was convinced that Santa had brought me an early Christmas present until my latest future husband-to-be began to tell me in great detail about how each of the seven trees was decorated — including the one that sat in his bedroom with a pink boa for garland and little shoe ornaments. He was certainly someone’s Mr. Right – just not mine.
I know my expectations are high. I know that Christmas is just one day amongst three hundred and sixty four other days of the year. But if I can’t hope for magic on this one special day, then when can I?
