It’s that time of year again, the one that comes around all too quickly. As 2024 comes to a close, I’m trying to recover from the continuing chaos that seems to have no end:
earthquakes, plane crashes, political upheavals, devastating conflicts, fires, floods, domestic violence, elections — not to mention personal chaos like a death in the family, knee surgery, retirement, new job, trips and the constant balancing act of life.
After all that, insidious Christmas sneaks up demanding us to be merry…
It’s time to put up the tree!
…and, as I don’t live in an American romcom flick, and we don’t go hunting for actual fir or spruce trees to carry home on the roof of the family wagon, it’s gotta be plastic. I know, not a good choice.
It’s now December and time again to rummage in the shed, push past the old dog beds and surfboards and snorkelling gear, dust off the cockroach corpses and flick off the daddy-long-legs (aka Pholcidae, thank you Wikipedia) to get to the box within which lives (if it was alive) the plastic Christmas tree.
The tree is accompanied by two large boxes of baubles, Santa hats, Santa suits (which will go unworn again this year as no one wants to sweat into felt on Christmas Day), Santa sacks, Santas that move, plastic Santas that light up, fairy lights for the tree (that I find carefully rolled up in anticipation for the coming year, thank you me), wreaths, candles and tiny holders, tons of tinsels (oh ok tonnes) and more baubles.
Most of the baubles have survived but a fair proportion have been squished with the weight of a year, and no longer have the thing that ties them to the tree (and I’m not reattaching). Let’s forget about the irony of Santa and snowflake baubles when it’s too hot even to set toe onto beach sand. The joys of summer in Western Australia…
I attach the tree branches (colour coded for size, thanks that’s helpful) and end up with the whole thing standing there naked in green. I try to remember the order — is it baubles, tinsel, lights? Or lights, tinsel, baubles? Does the order of placement matter? Who will know? I decide on lights (vertical not horizontal, trust me), baubles, tinsel and the thing is finally dressed.
Maybe your tree is perfect, but mine? It’s perfectly imperfect.
I push the ‘on’ button and the lights catapult me into a scene from Love Actually, though not actually.
But despite dead cockroaches, plastic trees and cobwebs, Christmas might just be about celebrating imperfection.
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