I want to be better at the holidays, but it’s not easy
Karina Bland is off this week. This was adapted from a story told originally at an azcentral Storytellers event. It is the second of four parts.
Ever since I’ve been an adult, I’ve had an awkward relationship with Christmas.
I love the trappings of it — the lights, wrapping paper and bows, the inflatable
Santa on the roof — and the traditions. But I hate the harried pace — and the expectations.
I took each house covered in lights, every batch of cookies to come out of someone else’s oven, every present wrapped as a poke between my shoulder blades.
Not. Good. Enough.
I’m not sure why it was so important to me to do this perfectly.
The artsy gifts. Decorations that look like something out of a magazine. Homemade foods at my Christmas Eve buffet.
It’s not who I really am. A harried single mother who works far too many hours, struggles to keep up and worries too much about what other people think of me.
But it’s who I want to be. I want to be better than I am.
So, every year, I would swear that I will do it better next time. I would start earlier. I would be organized.
And every year found me in the backback of Karen’s SUV on the way to the arts festival, panicked and clutching a shopping list.
So there we were, 16 shopping days to go. As we wandered among the white tents, my mother asked, “Is it a requirement to own a dog if you live in Tempe?” No. Well, maybe. It seemed like that. There were dogs wearing plaid jackets, sweaters and even a green elf costume. Dogs were tucked into purses, zippered into strollers and tugging at leashes.
I hadn’t noticed because I wasn’t paying attention.
Because three hours in, I had crossed only three names off my list. I still had 22 to go.