The March Hare

Christmas used to mean something. It used to mean that I wouldn't have to do anything for two to three weeks, that I would get a lot of presents, and that I could sleep through half of December.

That's what Christmas meant for fourteen years, including Kindergarten and the one year of college I managed to pay for. Fourteen years is a long time. Time enough to get accustomed to something. I would almost call it a 'Tradition'.

And then, Bam! At nineteen, I was out on my own, working for a living, and being forced to spend money on others to a much greater degree than ever before. Before, the money I had spent had been extra, seeing as my food, clothing, and the roof over my head were taken care of. Now, I ate peanut butter for a month after Christmas, somewhat dampening my joy.

Four years later, I'm still trying to come up with the solution. Making gifts? Not really that much cheaper than buying crap, and you have to, like, make them. Used books and DVD's? Know why they're used? Someone already threw up on them.

Luckily, my family has almost given up on Christmas. They deposit money to my bank account, I send them their gifts two months after the fact, and we're all okay with it. Clurg's family, on the other hand...

Well, let's just say that it's lucky Christmas falls on a Sunday this year, because Clurg's grandparents are going to church. This means I won't have to wake up at six on Christmas morning so we can start opening presents at seven so we can be done by two. Yes. Two in the afternoon. That sounds like work, doesn't it?

I think we need to get back to the Christmas basics of no-work-sleeping-in-two-week-vacationism. Because it was a fine old tradition and I miss it. I really do.