What, me worry about Christmas? Not anymore

“Let’s go in here,” my cousin Theresa called happily, heading down a stairwell to a shop beneath the old Mine Museum in Jerome.

I should have been suspicious. She hates shopping.

A bell chimed over the door, and I was assaulted by Christmas. In August. I glanced up at the name of the shop: “Mooey Christmas and Udder Things.” It sells all things cows and Christmas. Oh, very funny.

I have this awkward relationship with Christmas. I love its trappings and traditions. I want it to be perfect, like on Pinterest. But I get started too late and try to do too much. I hate the stress.

For some reason, the people who love me enjoy tormenting me about it.

Angelina sent me a book called, “Get Yourself Organized for Christmas: Simple Steps for Enjoying the Season.” In

May. Kristen texted to remind me how many days I had to get ready. In June.

Theresa chuckled. Dana pointed out ornaments, giggling. I may have growled a little. Just low.

Not only because I have already started my Christmas shopping. Or that I read Angelina’s book and heeded Kristen’s warning.

But also, because last year, or maybe it has been building for years, I decided it didn’t matter that my house wasn’t perfect, that the appetizers were from Trader Joe’s, or the plates paper and the forks plastic (and left over from Fourth of July).

Come Christmas Eve, family and friends show up. They gather in my toowarm, small kitchen, sit too close on the limited seating in my living room, talk and laugh.

No one notices that the ceiling fans are dusty or wonders if there is enough food and booze. Everyone gets new pajamas and we launch paper sky lanterns.

There’s no reason to stress.

So in the Christmas store in Jerome, I bought a set of zombie salt and pepper shakers. Perfect for my Christmas.