I have never really liked the Christmas season. I believe I say it to everyone who attempts to share the holiday cheer with me. I would rather be almost drunk until January 2. But at a few weeks shy of 41, I have finally figured out why I do not really care for Christmas.
It stems from my childhood. Make no mistake my parents tried. We always had a Christmas tree. The real ones, pine tree branches actually that we would buy on the roadside. (This was back in the day when there were enough trees and some young fellow would climb up some, cut off branches from a tree he did not plant and earn a relatively honest living for the holidays. Let us plant more trees)
We would then put the pine tree branch in a bucket of soil and cover the bucket in those gift wraps. Then it was time to decorate the tree with Christmas lights, different colour crepe paper, balloons and cotton wool to symbolise snow. When I think back, those trees were terribly ugly. But it was not Christmas without it, we lived for the day we would put up the tree.
There was always a silent tension on Christmas Day itself. My mum would be in a mood and my father always looked half dead. Those days he would tell us that he was ill, now I know it was a hangover.
So Christmas time for me as a young girl was a time when my father was ill and my mum was sad because my father was ill. On top of being ill, he was always getting arrested. And they would arrest him on the 24th and release him on the 25th. Sometimes in the evening. My mum would be so sad. We had the worst luck at Christmas time. So you see, there was never really much to be happy about.
As I grew older, my Christmas spirit never really checked in. Trust a man to always ruin Christmas. I thought I would hear success stories from women but I think men are not to be outdone. Even by evil spirits.
And just like I suspected, the holiday spirit has started moving. Causing women a lot of sorrow.
This is the season your beloved husband with whom you have offspring, a man you believe went to school, will leave the house in bathroom slippers and some odd shorts to go to the neighbourhood barbershop, only to show up three days later, fully clothed, trying to sell you some loosely knitted tale about being arrested by alcoblow. It seems during Christmas, they arrest you for drink-driving and give you clothes too.
It is in this season that you will find out that indeed he was never planning to leave his wife, because in your scrolling on social media—all alone in your city apartment, after leaving hundreds of messages in his phone—you see pictures of the man who promised to leave his wife for you. In these pictures he appears to be at the said wife’s rural home, grinning like a lizard. And he is standing next to a cow. (Not his wife, a real cow) He is paying dowry.
Fine maybe it really is the season for love, because you find yourself on the same side with your co-wife. When you both realise that he is not in either of your houses so you must join forces and work overtime like familiar spirits to make sure he does not bring back an unsolicited Christmas gift.
The devil really brings out his A-game in December. But let us decide to enjoy Christmas, please. I for one want to start enjoying this wretched day.
I am buying the kids a tree, wrapping presents and drinking copious amounts of wine. (The wine is for erasing childhood memories). I implore you, my sisters, to enjoy Christmas time too. Duck him and his shenanigans. Do something for you, and if you have kids, do something for them. Watch your mood. Kids remember all the details for the wrong reasons. (Case in point—me)
Merry Christmas to all you good people, wishing you a season of cheer and gladness.