When Holiday Guilt Comes to Call

I have a dear friend whom I shall hereafter refer to as Kathy. I will call her Kathy as that’s her name and I have no interest in protecting her identity, as I’m not sure she deserves it.

Kathy and I have been friends for decades. She’s wonderful, and I can usually stand it without feeling too inferior, or rolling my eyes when she tells me she made all of the food, including 500 delicious, delightfully decorated cake pops for her daughter’s bridal shower, (actually, I did roll my eyes, and I think I swore at her), but this time, she may have gone too far.

With the holidays upon us, I decided to scale back—way, waaayyy back, on holiday madness, including decorating, gift giving, baking, etc. My rationale was simple: My kids no longer live at home, creating the perfect holiday is exhausting, and no one really gave a damn anymore, especially me.

The decision was life-altering. I immediately felt lighter, happier, more peaceful. Until I talked to Kathy. While applauding my declaration that for me, less was more, she felt no such inclination herself. She was in the process of picking up “a few more things for the girls” (she has three lovely daughters—all grown), planning her holiday dinners, and—here’s the clincher—PURCHASING MATCHING PAJAMAS FOR EVERYONE AS THEY WOULD ALL BE TOGETHER AT HER HOUSE ON CHRISTMAS MORNING.

Seriously? Matching pajamas?!

Although I think I blacked out while we were talking, I’m pretty sure I swore at her again, wished her good luck in finding her damn pajamas, and hung up.

Looking around at my trimmed down version of Christmas, I thought about scuttling my self-imposed ban on excess and jumping back into the holiday quicksand. If Kathy could still manage to create a perfect Griswold family Christmas, then by God, so could I.

That’s when I saw Saint Joseph on the window sill.

Last year, I beheaded the poor guy, while trying to cram him, along with shepherds, king, angels, farm animals, Mary and baby Jesus, back into their box, on my third hour of putting away Christmas crap after the holidays. Panicked, and assuming at least partial damnation for beheading Jesus’ earthly dad, I reattached St. Joe’s noggin to his body, but not before looking around at the remaining Christmas carnage and thinking, “What the hell am I doing?”

That’s when I first realized that my holiday excess was my holiday stressor. I resolved to do less, and enjoy the season more. When decorating time came around this year, I pulled out Saint Joseph, yellow glue-ring around his neck, to remind me of my seasonal insanity, precisely so I wouldn’t get sucked in again.

So I pinched myself really, really hard, muttered, “Screw it” under my breath, and decided to call Kathy back to apologize for being a bit bitchy.

And I will; right after New Year’s. Merry minimalist Christmas to me.

Award winning author, speaker, humorist, and teacher, Mary Fran Bontempo has been writing for and about women for over 25 years. Her latest book, “The Woman’s Book of Dirty Words,” is available on Amazon and BarnesandNoble.com, along with “Not Ready for Granny Panties—The 11 Commandments for Avoiding Granny Panties,” published in 2012, and her first book, “Everyday Adventures or, As My Husband Says, ‘Lies, Lies and More Lies.’” Contact – Website - Books