By my count, we’re just 42 days away from Christmas. Normally, I’ve gotten a good jump-start on the holiday planning and shopping by now; but somehow, for some indefinable reason, it’s just not coming together this year.

I’ve started working on my gift list (giving, not receiving) several times, and all I’ve accomplished is writing down the names of family and friends. I did manage the other day to think of the perfect gifts for my favorite cousins and one friend before my brain shut down again; but there are seven people left on that list, and I’m stumped.

And then the reason hit me. I’ve developed a disease that is so common to the older generation, and that I always thought I would be able to avoid: “Past-itis.” I have been thinking — even dreaming some nights — about all those wonderful Christmases of the past, when my kids were little, and my family and friends were alive and close by, and I was in the midst of all the festivities.

Times have changed. I miss the days of fighting the crowds to shop in real stores for gifts I can see and touch before I buy them. And I miss the endless parties, the dressing up, the cooking and baking, the homemade eggnog, even the extra five or ten “holiday pounds” to be lost again after New Year’s Day. I miss the trip to the Hallmark store for coordinated gift wrap and ribbon and tags, and the hours of wrapping and bow-making.

Somehow, shopping online and stuffing things into gift bags just isn’t the same. But it’s easier, and these days that’s important.

And oh, how I miss the Christmas season that didn’t begin until the day after Thanksgiving — not in the middle of July, when it’s 95 degrees outside and you haven’t even begun to think about autumn yet. It should be cold at Christmastime.

So I’ve diagnosed my problem, and now all I need to do is figure out the treatment that will cure it. I’m thinking about stocking up on sugar cookies and apple cider; turning on some old-fashioned Christmas music (you know . . . Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Mannheim Steamroller, the Chipmunks); sitting down with the pile of Christmas catalogs that still find their way into my mailbox; and pretending that my little ones are asleep in the next room and my sister is just a phone call away.

That oughta do it.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
11/14/24