‘Seasons Greedings’ to everyone

Another Southern California Christmas has arrived: 82 degrees, Alexa blasting Bing on demand, the house filled with traditional holiday aromas: a skid of Costco pigs in a blanket baking away in the oven battling for olfactory supremacy with the synthetic log crackling away in the fireplace emitting an invisible cloud of petroleum-based chemicals. What a blessing to be home for the holidays!

At my age I should be over Christmas: Socks and underwear, a 500-count bottle of aspirin and I’m good, right? Wrong.

The sad truth is I miss the grotesque gluttony of Christmas morning when I’d received a haul of toys, candy for breakfast, and even an envelope with a five-dollar check from my great Aunt Sheila who nobody wanted to kiss because she smelled like sherry and had chin hair. It was all too much and that’s exactly what made it thrilling. If this makes me greedy, so be it.

Beginning in my larval state, I was introduced to the concept of “something for nothing” by Santa Claus, the jolly fat man who somehow slid down our chimney on Christmas Eve, bringing my brother, sister and me pretty much everything we dreamed of even though my siblings were rotten and undeserving of even a lump of coal. I, on the other hand, was a perfect angel, but the consequence-free toyhaul my brother and sister received taught me there was no reward for being “nice” and zero penalty for being “naughty.” Little did I realize what an important life lesson that is. These days, I am officially the family Christmas pain in the ass, the old codger who says “Nothing” when asked what he wants for Christmas. And I mean it. Sort of.

I have known for a decade I already have everything I need and most of what I want, and there is a difference, a difference it takes most of us years to recognize. Still, after a lifetime of Santa-worship, my nervous system is hardwired to expect a haul of swag on Christmas morning.

Outwardly, I am my usual calm, reflective, satisfied gentleman of a certain age who enjoys the simple pleasures of camaraderie and fellowship with old friends and family at the holidays. But underneath the veneer of maturity and gratitude is the same 7-year-old brat resentful my brother got a G.I. Joe Mercury Space Capsule in 1965 while I got a tin windup stagecoach.

So now the children bring their children over to our house for Christmas dinner, which means a second round of tearing into gift wrapping, mostly focused on our toddler grandson and his 8-month-old brother. But with each present revealed, the patina of serenity I have maintained begins to crack, until finally I ask, “What about me?” prompting a simultaneous shout of, “We got you what you asked for ... nothing!”

And then The Wife will make everything right by handing me a package with a sweet card inscribed with a lovely sentiment. I tear into the package and shout with pretend joy, “Razor blades!” Not fully appreciating what she hopes I’ll do with them.

Of course, I will then give her a gift as well, something she neither needs nor wants, because she is an adult and has outgrown the self-centered Christmas hoopla that still has its hooks into me. I would gladly purchase her something she’d love and enjoy, but I’m out of ideas. When the Amazon truck arrives 240 days a year, what chance does Christmas have?

Still, when the bells start to jingle, I get the Seasons Greedings conditioned by 65 years of TV commercials and Berle Ives singing “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” for the 10,000th time.

On Dec. 25, call me Pavlov’s Doug.