I put up the Christmas tree this morning, aided by a pot of coffee and Trans Siberian Orchestra cranked up on the stereo. I’m still not feeling like Christmas, but the Christmas Spirit has a lot of muck to wade through to get to me this year.
The tree is a fake. When I bought it, I rigged the lights so that I can pull the tree apart for storage without removing the lights. (Yes, I know they make them that way now, but I couldn’t afford one of those that year.) During the other 11 months of the year, it resides in a big green body bag in the basement. Next year I might get a real tree again. I haven’t had one in about five years — not since I left one up until my birthday in February, then watched its carcass rot on the porch until my landlady issued an ultimatum in late March.
Of the two large tubs of ornaments and holiday knick knacks I’ve collected over the years, only the same handful of red and gold stars and hearts make it onto the tree each year. I added a dozen new ones to the mix from last year’s clearance sales, along with a real tree skirt and matching tablecloth. Now that it’s up, I think I need some burgundy garland and place mats.
This evening I’ll join some friends for potluck and A Muppet Christmas video. It will be a good thing. I feel isolated at home alone all the time.