Christmas Made to Order

Approximately two weeks remain until Christmas and, at the moment, I'm right on track. I've bought gifts, all of which are currently piled in a corner of my living room, ready to be wrapped and distributed, for family, friends, coworkers, and local charities, so far without a single panic attack or ulcer, which feels like a major accomplishment befitting "a major award" (see A Christmas Story for the reference). Is holiday neurosis an actual diagnosable condition? If so, I have it in spades, and I know I'm not the only one.

"The most wonderful time of the year" (aka "the happiest season of all") has a way of making people feel very anxious and unhappy. I can't help feeling nostalgic for Christmases of yore (namely those of my childhood) when this holiday was all joy (presents! two-week school vacation!) and no stress. At that time, my biggest Christmas concern was whether I'd get everything on my wishlist (so carefully marked in the Sears Wish Book). Giving to others was the least of my worries. Just about any trinket from the school Christmas fair would do. I reserved my time and energy for ensuring I'd get exactly what I wanted. 

Today it's the opposite. When someone asks me what I want, I offer practical, inexpensive, easy-to-find items that I know I'll use and enjoy: candles, kitchen tools, hair products, and, this year, a toaster. All of my energy (and stress) now goes into getting others the perfect gift(s), something they'll really love, enjoy, and, most importantly, use. And typically I'll drive myself crazy overthinking and rethinking whether I should buy this for that person, or is it too much, not enough, etc. Eventually I have to decide, preferably before December 1, when I really start panicking. (That's another thing: I swear the holiday season zips by before I'm ready for it, whereas in my youth, the month, weeks, and days before Christmas dragged interminably.)

I know I'm not the only one feeling holiday neurosis, however. I've noticed a funny thing this year: It's no longer enough to tell someone, if asked, a general-but-clearly-stated gift idea. They want me to pick out a gift for myself. Blame it on gift registries (where everyone today orders their own gifts and demands that others pay for them), or fear of buying the wrong gift for the wrong person, but I've had the following conversations during the past few weeks, which follow a similar pattern:

Coworker/Friend: "What would you like for Christmas?"

Me: "Tea."

Coworker/Friend: "What kind of tea?"

Me: "Green tea."

Coworker/Friend: "What kind of green tea?"

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Sister: "What would you like for Christmas? "

Me: "Hair products." (My sister is a licensed hair stylist and gets a discount.)

Sister: "What kind of hair products?"

Me: "Whatever's on sale!"

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Brother: "What would you like for Christmas?"

Me: "Candles and toiletries are always welcome."

Brother: "What kind of toiletries?"

Me: "Body wash, shampoo, conditioner..."

Brother: "What brands? I don't want to get you something you don't like."

Me: "I'm not fussy!"

I'm alternately amused and exasperated by these conversations, but believe me when I write that I understand them. A big part of my holiday neurosis, as I believe it is for many, is earnestly wishing not only to give loved ones gifts but the right gifts, the perfect gifts for them. And God forbid (in our minds, at least) we get them the same item(s) we got them last year, or buy something they won't like or use. It's as if Christmas, which really isn't about gifts at all, is ruined if we don't get exactly what we want or give exactly what someone else wants. (Third world problems these aren't.) Meanwhile, there's always someone out there who would be happy to receive or give a gift, any gift at all. 

If only we could focus on the real meaning of Christmas, there would be so much less neurosis (and credit card debt) and so much more joy abounding.

And so, determined to decrease my own holiday neurosis, which has steadily decreased with each gift bought, I sincerely wish you a very happy, neurosis-free holiday.