The Anti-Christmas

I have a confession to make.

Christmas decorations kind of get on my nerves.

There, I said it. Feel free to throw all of your glittery ornaments at me, including the phallic-shaped ones complete with ridges that I just don’t get (gross), and tie me up in a string of twinkling lights—the white ones though, not the multi-colored. I prefer an understated yet classic look.

I actually rather loved our tree this year. The husband picked it out and, I must say, he did good. Though, any tree compared to last year’s red-headed step child of the Charlie Brown tree would be a vast improvement.

It sparkled in the corner for two weeks (we were late putting it up this year because, per usual, school ruins everything), between the fireplace and the husband’s oversized chair that I kind of wish would spontaneously burst into flames.

I adored it until I didn’t—which was exactly two days after Christmas. The tree overpowered the room. My mantel with those lovely silver reindeer was all ‘back up off me!’ and I can’t say I blame it. It all became clutter and too much and I just wanted my house back.

I could only stand about three and a half minutes of Mariah Carey’s Glitter (or Mariah Carey for that matter) and all the glittery things of Christmastime have a short shelf-life too. Decorations are like house guests—it’s nice to have them, but after a bit I just want to walk around braless again.

Thankfully, ornaments aren’t offended by the post-nursing boob sag, but still—you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.

And so, last night, back in the garage it all went. Every last silvery, sparkly, cheery bit of it. And before the New Year, no less. I know; I’m killing everyone’s holiday buzz. I’m charming like that.

G asked me this morning where the tree went and I told her ‘to a kitschy holiday party down the street.’

Parent. of the. year.

Obviously.

When do you take down your decorations?