Bent Words

Bent Words

January 01, 2008

1, 2, 3 done.

Finally.

Not quite sure I’ve ever been more glad to see the holiday season at its closure. Not that I don’t like Christmas but… actually, yeah, it’s just that I don’t like Christmas.

When you’re a kid, it’s totally different. The anticipation rivals only that which a trip to Disney World could compare to (until you’re standing in line for two hours with a full bladder to go on a really big roller coaster and suddenly realize that you’re afraid of heights and have to pee, it’s great). Christmas as a kid is all about the ‘I.’ What did ‘I’ get and which gift has ‘my’ name on it and that big one in the corner had better be for ‘me’ or else I’m poisoning the eggnog.

That all changes once you start bringing in your own bacon. Then it’s about everyone else and you start to forget that you ever had normal blood pressure. You forget how nice it was back when you had enough money in your checking account to grab a beer during the game or a stupid candy bar at the gas station (but, ‘oops,’ you put in a dollar’s worth too much gas and now you must forego the simple delight that is a Snicker’s bar). Suddenly, it’s all about the kids (which really sucks when they’re not even yours and you don’t feel as though you actually owe them anything worth more than the cardboard box their gift came in which they’ll probably have more fun with anyway).

Suddenly, because you stupidly admitted to not believing in Santa anymore, it’s ‘wrong’ for YOU to lie under the tree and ponder who’s getting that gynormous gift with the oversized bow. What’s up with that? Half the crap under the tree was made possible because of me and my hard earned paycheck so I think I deserve a little avaricious loot-peaking time, damn it. A little reminiscing under the old ornaments (which I slaved over in second grade despite my poor vision and lack of corrective lenses) with my head perfectly cradled on either side by gifts doesn’t seem like too much to ask, does it?

They yell at me because they fear I will negatively impress upon the kids…

Why do I have to set a good example for my nieces when God invented scary men with night sticks?

I mean, seriously, it’s not my job to teach them good manners and proper etiquettes – hell, I still cannot fathom how one is able to dine without setting one’s elbows in the eatification zone. I never understood that fully – what harm can my elbows really do when it’s more likely that my fingers be the culprit in the spreading of virulent germs? And I will continue to sit Indian style at the dinner table if I so choose because this is my holiday too and not an f’ing tea party and, damn it, I’m comfortable.

I love my nieces more than anything but that shouldn’t stop me, for the sake of making a ‘good impression,’ from finding absolute joy in lobbing a giant snowball at my big brother’s grinning face. I have not procreated for this reason – I find enough responsibility in keeping myself in check (heh). Besides, shouldn’t it be enough that I am ready and willing to prevent them from setting random pieces of household furniture on fire? Isn’t it fair to say I’ve done my duty by leaving them all my money when I die? Haven’t I impressed upon them positively enough with all the motorcycle-related gifts I’ve given them throughout the years?

So their greedy little monsters when it comes to Christmas. So they want to lie under the tree and tempt the wrapping free with their inquisitive fingers. So they pick up on my unbreakable habits of being a big, stupid kid sometimes – so what? They’re kids. Let ‘em be crazy kiddos.

It’s so much more fun that way.

1, 2, 3 end rant.

And Happy New Year!

Written at 7:39 p.m.