A Bipolar Holiday Carol

I love/hate the holidays. So much pressure to be happy. Such pressure to enjoy being immersed in the bosom of one’s family…recollections passed around from one family member after another regaling all the idiotic things you said and did as a child/teen/young adult (or last year, for that matter). At a recent family gathering, an aunt starting recounting one of her favorite anecdotes concerning her daughter (my cousin) to a distant relative who had not had the pleasure of this story. The daughter said, “Mom…no. Seriously. NO!” My aunt gathered all the self-control she could muster and stifled herself - to my disappointment. What can I say? It was a funny story. And not about me.

Some examples of embarrassing childhood stories…this same cousin (you know who you are) and I built elaborate floor plans out in the yard by raking leaves into imaginary walls which delineated the rooms of our mansions (approximately 36 square feet or so…mini mansions), in which we lived with our pretend husbands Pat Boone and Rock Hudson. I was married to Rock Hudson (of course I’d be married to a closeted gay man). We also wore towels on our heads, pinned back in such a way as to signify long ponytails (it fooled no one) and then we would pretend we were dancing on “American Bandstand” with imaginary boyfriends. And just think…these are the stories I’m willingly sharing.

 

 

(This is the only Christmas painting I have...Santa is good. "The Santa Clause 3" is bad. Shouldn't that kid be about 35 years old by now?)

 

 

But then…there’s the food. And the happy childhood memories, towel-heads notwithstanding. I remember playing our family version of war games, in which my uncles (both WWII vets) would chase us kids through the woods throwing acorns at us. Gosh…that sounds cruel. But we LOVED it…such an adrenalin rush. We would even occasionally try to retaliate, but we were hopelessly outmatched. And there’s the food, of course (did I mention that already?).

Even now, I’m falling into the holiday trap…conjuring up memories of childhood, and family and friends who have come and gone. Happy. Sad. Conflicted. Stressed. What to buy for Aunt Rose? Okay, I don’t have an Aunt Rose. But you get my point. Right? Or am I just neurotic? Never mind…I think the answer to that question has long since been established.

But then…there’s the chocolate-covered cherries. And family anecdotes NOT about me. And young children with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads. And Christmas music (enjoyable for the first couple of days). And “It’s A Wonderful Life” (enjoyable for the first 30 minutes). And the food, though I think I may have previously mentioned that.

Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas”…but then there’s those dogs barking “Jingle Bells”. Horrible. “Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire” as sung by Nat King Cole…glorious. “Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire’ as sung by Justin Bieber makes me want to cry. Fudge…fruit cake. Whiskers on kittens…bee stings. Ying…yang. I guess you have to have the bad stuff in order to truly appreciate the good stuff.

Well…I suppose I might as well just dive full-force into the eggnog-fruitcake-fudge-"White Christmas"-"A Christmas Story" for 24-hours straight - "Jingle Bells" melee and ride the bipolar holiday rollercoaster open sleigh with childish abandon. Sans towel.