Christmas...

.. is still more than a month away.  The jack-o-lantern on my neighbor's porch hasn't even gone into decomp yet and I am already whistling "Jingle Bell Rock" to myself every chance I get. 

I am generally somewhat of a callous bitch- I'll own that.  I'm grumpy, pessimistic, and I like to gossip. For every silver lining you may see, I see skies full of impending doom.  You may see a child, but I see a gremlin with a runny nose.  I don't like nuns,  puppies, or Oprah.   I think the sun is oppressive and flowers just make me sneeze.
All-in-all, I can be downright unpleasant.  But from October 21st- January 5th, I am the giddiest, most altruistic, naively hopeful person you will ever encounter.

My mother uses the term "bliss ninny" to describe people like me.  I get drunk on the smell of candy canes.  I want to hug every bearded fat man in red that I see (this has caused awkward moments in the past).  Every time I hear a bell ring I feel compelled to scream congratulations to angels for their new found flight capability.  I quote Tiny Tim's "God bless us every one" when more than four acquaintances gather in the same vicinity.  I practice wrapping empty boxes, and I decorate a Christmas tree weeks before Thanksgiving; then, I leave it up until Valentine's Day. "Grinch" replaces "bitch" in my vocabulary. I purchase lotions that make me smell like a gingerbread house and candles that promise cliche results like "Warm Holiday Splendor" and "Grandma's Christmas Cookies."  And, I get generally offended- sometimes weepy- when I hear the words "bah humbug" uttered by those not so Yuletide obsessed.  

How did this happen?  I have no idea.  For years I was Queen of the Scrooges.  I had the typical  bitchy grinchy attitude that Christmas was just an "overly commercialized shopping gimmick," but one day that all changed.  I'm not religious and don't really have any tie to the spiritual meaning behind the holiday, but somehow the infectious magic of Christmas cheer has managed to get through to me on a cellular level.  I wear tacky sweaters and jingle bell earrings, and I wait with childlike anticipation for the claymation Christmas movies to make their annual appearance on CBS. 

I'm beginning to think that Christmas Me is what I would be like all the time if I'd never learned the art of cynicism.  It's like my inner child marks a 60 day block on my mental calendar and says "This time is reserved for good thoughts and magic," and then shoves a sugar plum down the throat of grinchy everyday me.  It is an amazing reprieve.