I don’t like Christmas.
In fact, I may have said once or twice that I even hate it. Not in a Scrooge kind of way, though I’m sure it all sounds very bah humbug.
In the first draft I wrote of this post, I probably went a little overboard in my explanation why and in the end, I feared, it sounded like the perfect accompaniment to the world’s smallest violin.
For the sake of brevity or something vaguely resembling it — it is the holidays after all, and who isn’t pressed for time — I loved Christmas until I was 11 and each year had its traditions, including opening our gifts on Dec. 24, like many good German families.
I remember how torturous dinner was every Christmas Eve because it seemed to take forever for people to clear their plates. I swear my parents ate slower than normal, just for kicks. And in my excitement to rip glossy paper to shreds to get at my loot, I had no appetite anyway.
Being a good German family, we always had a real tree and we were never lavished with gifts. We got one larger, meaningful present and few small items that went with it — like the Wham! and Cindy Lauper tapes I got to go with my Sanyo ghetto blaster when I was 8.