Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 197

You guys,

Christmas is like adderall. It makes me happy and high and in the best mood ever, and then it’s over and feels like someone has died. 

For over a month I was filled with the warm glow of Christmas spirit. Every morning I walked out to the dark living room and turned on the colorful lights of the tree, then pulled out my coffee mug with the red stripes and thin handle that fit perfectly in my hand. I pressed play on our Sonos speaker in the kitchen and whether it was Bing Crosby or Britney Spears turned it up one or two notches. Every afternoon I stopped in front of our tree and said to Sam, “Isn’t the tree so pretty?” When my 3-year-old asked, “How many more days of Christmas?” I announced the number with glee and said, “Let’s go change the countdown!” Every evening I walked through the house and turned on the rest of the Christmas lights, smiling like Buddy The Elf as I flipped switches and plugged in cords. 

But on December 26 my decorations haunt me. Santa Claus came and went and that magical glow that emanated off me and everything else has evaporated. Now the lights feel wrong, the music inappropriate, the mug—with its green and red holly berries—out of season. What were once festive and jolly on our library shelves are now just angry nutcrackers, weird Santas, and creepy elves. What’s worse is our Christmas tree is dead. Brittle pine needles are everywhere and the ornaments that once hung on the lowest branches now sit on the floor. 

Two days after Christmas I cry in my office so Sam can’t hear. Thirty minutes later I’m clearing the front entry table of jingle bell lights and a tiny glass tree when Sam asks how I’m doing. I tell him the only thing sadder than Christmas decorations after Christmas is putting them away and staring at the empty places where they once were. 

I oscillate between feeling overwhelmed by my sadness and feeling silly for feeling so sad. Sam suggests next year we plan a trip for the day after Christmas. But the Christmas decorations would still be there when we returned, and I’m sure I would just experience the grief at a later date. 

There are still lights framing the windows in the playroom and wrapped around the banister in the stairwell. I can’t bring myself to take them down so I plug them in. 

It’s not the same. 

Three days after Christmas the weather is dark and gloomy. I can’t decide which music to play because none of it makes me happy in the way Christmas music did. Not even Taylor Swift radio. 

I stare at the Christmas lights, debating whether it’s more depressing to leave them up or take them down. Before I can change my mind I rip them off the windows and banister in a fury, wrap them into figure eights and place them in the storage closet. 

Everything is put away. The house is quiet and the holiday is over.

Four days after Christmas the sun comes out. I catch up with friends on a Zoom call. I play tennis with Sam. I put away the last of the Christmas kitchen stragglers: the gingerbread dish drying mats, a reindeer spoon rest, and my favorite, the Santa Claus cookie jar. 

I carry him into the storage closet and as I rest him down in his off-season home, look at his face and hear myself talking. “Well, I’m going to miss you. You were awesome, as usual. Thanks for everything.” 

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Until next week,

Charlie