Muddling through somehow

This past weekend, while suffering from CSPD – Collective Seasonal Psychosis Disorder – I called up a Christmas playlist on my phone. That’s dangerous, the random playlist, because you never know when they’ll play Pentatonix and ruin your whole Christmas.

In this case, we went straight from Judy Garland’s melancholy “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” to Mariah Carey going pure id with “All I Want for Christmas is You.” Now there, I thought, is the evolution of Christmas in a nutshell.

I even did some analysis. In “Have Yourself…” Judy sings “you, yourself” four times, “we, us” five times, and “I, me” zero times. In “All I Want for Christmas…” Mariah sings “I, me, mine” 17 times. She sings “you” six times, but of those six, four are used, appropriately, as objects.

“Have Yourself…” is about being together, contemplating better times, wishing the best to loved ones. “All I Want…” is about gittin’ some!

By the way, if you’re doing your own word count for “Have Yourself…”, you may come with a different tally. That’s because the original 1944 version was updated at the request of Frank Sinatra in 1957 to be less, well, bleak. For example, the original lyrics are, “Someday soon we all will be together / If the fates allow / Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow…” The updated, upbeat version goes, “Through the years we all will be together / If the fates allow / Hang a shining star upon the highest bow…”

If you ask me, the Greatest Generation had it right. A happy Christmas is far from a sure thing, although we’ve collectively (CSPD) deluded ourselves into believing not only that it should be (“I, me, mine”) but that it must be. Unfortunately, you don’t always get what you want. And sometimes you get what you don’t want, namely the flu, from all the hugging and kissing, but that’s another story.

Just the act of purchasing gifts, for example, is hugely stressful. Believe me, I know; my wife tells me all the time.

“You’re in charge of gifts this year,” she said this past fall.

“Okay,” I said, but I sensed she was bluffing because she loves the children too much to do that to them.

I try to help. I really do. I try to come up with ideas, but it’s exactly like when I see all those products in the stores: I look but I don’t see. It’s just a wall of overwhelming. I mean, why do we need so many different kinds of panini makers!

I also procrastinate. “You’re in charge of your parents,” Deb said this month, lowering the bar. “Got it,” I said. Then she showed me an item in a catalogue we could order for them. (She’s so helpful.) “Perfect. I’m on it,” I said. A week (or so) later, I went online and discovered the item was sold out.

“I guess I’ll get them a certificate to that restaurant they like,” I told Deb.

But I didn’t.

Monday, Deb called me at work. “What’s your parents’ postal code?” she asked. She’d been online and found that original item now available.

“JOB 3E0.”

“No, that’s your postal code…” Deb said.

“Oh, right,” and I gave her my parents’.

“What’s their phone number?” “819 –”

“No.”

“902…” Procrastinating and exasperating, I know. My wife is a saint.

One thing she can’t help me with, though, is buying something for her. She’s tough. I have a long history of striking out, although who wouldn’t want a cup-holder tissue dispenser, honestly!

I’m hopeless, it stresses me out, and I’m running out of time. And I really have only one person! If only all everyone wanted for Christmas really was you. I could handle that. Just think where I’d put the bow…

But I’m not going to go full-on Mariah and make this all about me. Instead, I’ll try to embrace my inner Judy.

Our son arrived home last Sunday, and as we decorated the tree, I put on the record he likes – well, he doesn’t like it, he says (sure…), but it’s kind of a tradition. It’s the Ray Conniff Singers, who are so cringingly out of fashion they don even show up on iphone playlists.

The older girls arrive home Saturday, and I can’t wait to see them. The house will be full, and there will be an excess of food and drink. Games will be played. They’ll be tickled with their gifts. (Thanks, Mom.) It will be merry. It will be loud. It will be messy. We’ll muddle through. Such is life. Such is Christmas.

Have yourself a merry little one.