Christmas Without Money

The thing I love best about Christmas is the scent of pine, the ‘Charlie Brown Christmas' music playing non-stop, the hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, the board games (enjoyed at a federally-approved distance from the portable heater), the afternoons spent baking (or in my case, lighting the cookie-scented diffuser), and the ‘Merry Christmas!' gleefully administered by complete strangers who won't give you the time of day during the rest of the year. 

So, apparently I don't belong in this day and age of high-octane materialism. I don't get up at the crack of dawn to stand in four hour line-ups for a sale price. I don't elbow people in the kidney (often, that is) in an effort to grab that last item off the shelf. I don't max out my credit cards to buy gifts I can't afford just to save face. I don't try to guess what someone will spend on me so that I can match them in size, price or luxuriousness. Not only can I simply not afford material pleasures this year, but I don't want to. Gasp! 

No, it's not that I am a Scrooge, it's that I would much prefer to have friends over for dinner, drinks and laughs with nothing exchanged between us except bodily fluids. (Kidding of course. Just seeing if you were paying attention as you read this blog from Nordstrom on your iPhone.) I would prefer to have a hand-written card about how much our friendship has meant to you because by having me in your life you feel comparatively well-adjusted. I would much rather bundle up and walk around the neighborhood with my boyfriend admiring the lit-up houses (especially the one with all the nude statues in front). I would much prefer to trade expertise: for example, you put up my ceiling-to-floor bookshelves, and I stand there and stare. 

I'm not some Pollyanna type who thinks materialism is a one-way ticket to the fiery depths of hell - we all want and need stuff, from the roof over our heads to a second pair of shoes (what? I’m the only woman in the world without a closetful of shoes?) to an iPod so we can drown out the sound of the obnoxious seatmate on the bus. I just don't think stuff should be the only criteria for a good Christmas. 

We are inundated by consumerism all year long with TV commercials, magazine ads, giant blinking billboards, radio campaigns, flyers in the mail, names of sports arenas, and t-shirt slogans. And there's no respite for the weary; come holiday time all this quadruples until you feel guilty - guilty - for not spending your rent money on gifts. And truly, how many presents do you receive that you'll never wear, read, listen to, eat, turn on, squeeze (Thigh Master) or even return (due to aforementioned guilt factor)? 

Someone telling me that my lame jokes got them through a rough period earlier in the year brings tears to my eyes that no jewel, gadget or wad of cash could ever do (um, but, you know, don't stop trying). However, my quaint ideas of Christmas seem silly when it's a one-way street, much like tickling yourself: it works best when there's another person involved. 

So when someone hands me a large, lavishly wrapped gift and I offer to sing ‘Jingle Bells' in a cappella with myself in return, I suddenly feel very cheap. But I'm not cheap, it's just that this year, my heart is bigger than my bank account.