Pollyism of the week
Every time some keen shop assistant eagerly enquires, “Are you ready for Christmas?” and they’re smiling, happy and ever so friendly, I want to wave them away with my pudgy hand. But of course I don’t because that would be rude. No, I’m not ready for Christmas. I’m not even ready for last Christmas. Please, would time just slow the heck down and give this panicked woman a break.
When my kids were little, I used to get joy from the shopping and the wrapping. I used to love irritating friends and strangers with my glee as I hung up Christmas lights in October. I’d have the Christmas music piping through the house and everyone would be complaining about it. My favourite game was getting the decorations up sneakily before anyone noticed.
But now I’m not ready. In fact every single time I walk into a department store or the supermarket, the thought runs through my head, “No, it can’t be. No, stop making me feel guilty, blue tinsel. Stop making me ill-prepared, golden reindeer in aisle three!”
It’s as though I’m an ex-Christmas junkie being triggered by memories of Yuletide intoxication from years gone by. I need to find my ho-ho-ho mojo, but honestly, I’m not sure when and where I left it.
It was the ’90s and Grant (my ex-husband and good friend) and I had lost our first baby to a late miscarriage. We decided that year didn’t deserve a Christmas and instead we’d walk up the coast from Wellington to Whanganui to visit Grant’s folks, which we figured would take us three or four days.
To do such a thing, you need boots you’ve at least semi-broken in. I did not, so by end of day one, I was in tears, had almost drowned and was ready to give up.
Day two brought poor attempts at hitchhiking, more blisters and another almost-drowning incident.
Day three had us so hungry that fried chicken from a dodgy takeaway shop was the best food we’d ever tasted, and I was refusing to leave the motel room.
We were in Levin when we decided to buy bus tickets to Whanganui. A smarter idea came to us and we hired a car. Our walk had been a disaster, but the memories? That was absolutely my most memorable Christmas.
It was an awful year and even the walk was a bit of a horror story, but it was my favourite ever Christmas. Why? Because I learnt that presents are lovely, but doing something is even better.
Every year since, I’ve broken down in tears after spending eight hours stuffing chickens, making salads and organising everything because I feel compelled to do so on my own, although I know I’d rather just relax with Uber Eats and a tin of shortbread watching LoveActually.