A Holiday Indie Production In Several Acts

The house was barely dressed for Christmas. An act of quiet rebellion, fuelled by middle-aged fatigue and an advanced degree in seasonal resistance. I open the closet of past optimism, where years of lovingly collected, deeply sentimental, immaculately organized decorations stare at me. I stare back. We reach a unanimous decision, hard pass. A couple of funky wreaths are dragged out. Neither is fully dressed, however. I’m aware of their potential in my head, and that is where the balance will rest. For now, I’ll liberate them, but they’ll have to carry the season half-naked.

I’ve officially retired from the annual tradition of buying the tree with my husband and decorating it alone, while the kids later breeze by, offering a drive-by thumbs-up like underpaid art critics. This year, my middle finger rises, not as high as the star once perched on the tree, but measured, resolute, festive and committed.

What follows is the Christmas Olympic decathlon. Cooking, cleaning, shopping, wrapping, dashing, driving, co-ordinating, hosting, budgeting, scheduling, improvising, compromising, smiling, parking, entertaining, and holding it all together so I can remotely replicate Santa’s magic. For the grandkids, purchases are made. Tastes change. Returns happen. Re-purchasing. Parking is fought for like it’s beachfront property, while drivers are feral.

Meanwhile, my pelvic floor files an urgent complaint. I stand in yet another line, this one for the bathroom, with hands empty and my mind clutching my bladder, trying to look chilled with legs crossed like a contortionist, negotiating with God. Sweet relief arrives as the bathroom door swings open, followed immediately by the discovery of three tragic thin squares of toilet paper. I rummage through my purse for tissues like a raccoon to finish the job.

Hands washed, a new craving unlocks: a latte. Why after the current episode? I have no idea, but I follow the call like I’m in a trance. The mall is a human pinball machine. I’m bumped. Coffee spills on my coat. Emergency stain management ensues. I exit with two shopping bags containing something. Gifts? Socks? Regret? Can’t quite remember. Onward I go to repeat the experience.

The weather turns. The dashboard screams, “Low Washer Fluid.” I have extra fluid, but naturally, I left it by the front door. Snow begins to fall as I arrive at a members-only big-box store, where drivers battle for parking with the moral clarity of Roman gladiators. My Christmas playlist has no resonance, so I blast some AC/DC and briefly wonder what Xanax does and whether I should have some. Next store: sold out of what I went there for. Five minutes ago, no less. If I’d left my parking spot earlier and not been boxed in by competing elves from a Stephen King film, I’d be victorious. Instead, I am a lesson.

Food shopping begins, another big-box store, another mood. Carts collide. Eyes narrow. Patience is taxed. Samples are handed out, but nothing to ease the stress. I miss wine, but I miss tequila more. Damn me for giving up drinking because of a sulphite allergy. The magic water could bring some relief at this time of year. I nab a parking spot and manoeuvre into it like James Bond. I’m oddly proud of my parking job. Three-point turns turn into two-point turns, and parallel parking turns into magic tricks, with the skill of a Formula 1 Driver. I’m a pro with a deflated seasonal attitude. Inside, Christmas merchandise attacks from every aisle. I’m grateful to be a pescatarian while meat prices are so high that they require a second mortgage. I buy cookies because ambition is dead. Guilt flickers, then passes like gas.

Traffic. Gridlock. Instead of candy canes and whimsy, I remember the laundry. The main floor. Entertaining. Joy remains completely elusive. This same album of errands and activity is queued up for the week of New Year’s Eve. Again. Consistency is an aspect of what is supposed to be a festive season.

And really, who said Christmas is fun? For whom? For children, certainly not for those preparing, who assume a charade of Martha Stewart’s skills. It’s a full-scale production on an indie budget, with most of us playing every role. Director. Writer. Producer. Lead actor. Casting agent. Stagehand. Always unpaid. A marathon disguised as a holiday, where something is forgotten every year. If not left behind in a store aisle, then quietly expiring in the fridge weeks later, where it absolutely did not belong. I’m too old for this shit. Mrs. Claus is a Saint. I am not. My Guardian Angels are outside having a cigarette as I have an existential crisis, trying to figure out the essence of the season.

And yet, I’ve been doing it swimmingly for over forty years. Smiling. Making it look effortless. Turning chaos into tradition and exhaustion into “magic.” I’ve mastered chocolate bark and have been scarfing it down like Willy Wonka on crack. Obviously, it’s for self-care.

But now? Now I put my feet up. I breathe. I did my best. I closed out an abysmal year with whatever magic I could still summon, stretch, borrow, or delusionally manufacture. Because the whole premise is flawed. Serendipity isn’t a limited-edition release meant to drop once a year and be sold out by December 24th. It’s not supposed to be vacuum-sealed, stress-tested, or crammed like sardines in the final two weeks of the calendar year. Absolute wonderment needs to be available year-round, in small, spectacular, and unspectacular miracles, and in long stretches of intoxicating calm. Not rationed, not scheduled, and certainly not administered like emotional first aid after a month-long endurance event. Joy should be effortless. It’s about maintenance and awareness of what really matters.

On that note, I wish us all a 2026 that asks less of us. One where brute force isn’t necessary, nor is logistical warfare, nor emotional triage. A year where magic doesn’t have to be manufactured under pressure, but instead arrives naturally, seeded in ease, watered by release, and grown through surrender. Where allowing reaps flow and flow reaps happiness, delight and calm, a year filled with blessings and abundance.

Happy New Year!