HIGH tree-son
NEEDLED INTO A PINUS FALSUS, JEREMY FIR-GETS HIS PRINCIPLES
The world is divided into two types of people: Those who prefer real Christmas trees, and Muppets.
You guessed it: I’m a realer. Always have been, always will be. I love the aroma, the joy of finding the perfect pine, the dropped needles, the beautiful irregular symmetry of nature, impossible to synthesise. I disdain artifice.
Get a tree or don’t get a tree. But don’t invite some pale, bogus imitation into your home.
My family knows this of me and it has not been questioned. Until this year.
I laughed when Megan first suggested a pretend pine. It was October. I figured she just wanted to start Christmas ridiculously early and was using her normal tactic of suggesting an artificial tree, knowing I would instinctively insist on a real tree, which we would then acquire.
To my surprise, when I burst into my Pavlovian rant about genuine radiata being the only acceptable option, she didn’t seize upon it and drive me directly to the forest. A barely audible alarm rang at the back of my brain. I ignored it.
Several days later, while I was weakened by a preoccupation with food, I was presented with online options for fake trees. This time I just stared at my wife as if she had shown me pictures of caged teddy bears.
She smiled and simply pointed to the tree she was thinking of purchasing. Clever.
Before I could help myself, the primal, bargain-hunting part of my brain took over and made me point at another, far superior fake-tree-for-money deal.
She agreed, and sent me a text later that day saying she’d located my preferred option, found it further reduced and, therefore, logically, had purchased it.
I immediately sent a text back making it crystal clear where I stood on this abhorrence: “Okay.”
During the afternoon and into the evening,
I was sent photos of my children gleefully assembling the tree.
When I arrived home,
I dutifully joined in with the decorating.
In my head, a brain man was yelling at me to stop, to fight, to banish this imposter to the recycling. Unfortunately, he was drowned out by other brain men ringing sleigh bells and complimenting me on the excellent way I’d hung the lights. I’d given in.
I had imagined I would resist more. I’d been proud to be pro-real. To stand up for what’s right. But it seems the strength of my convictions was not huge. All someone had to do to win me over was make any effort at all.
Ironically, in the days after the revolution the fake tree grew on me. I now like it. Or do I? Perhaps I am just trying to rationalise my complete and utter capitulation.
It seems my lifelong dedication to real Christmas trees wasn’t a deeply held belief, but more of an affectation. A bubble burst by the smallest of imitation pine needles.
It saddens me to realise our Christmas tree isn’t the only thing in our house that is artificial.