Grinch

At the start of this month I wasn't much into the holiday spirit.  It's a touch unlike to me to bring the pessimist Scrooge-like attitude out in full force, but given a few things that have been flying around in my personal life, I was completely bringing it - a side of grumpy pants included as an extra bonus.

You all know how this holiday stuff goes, after all.  Of course you do.  The minute someone says Thanksgiving left-overs, there are suddenly the 800 million commercials on air about Lexus cars wrapped in massive bows and diamonds and God-awful proposal ideas like getting down on one knee as you're boarding an airplane (I'm looking at you, Jarrods).  Happy couples and families are off picking out their Christmas trees and decorating with hot chocolate in hand; young parents take their kids to meet Santa Claus and post - often hilarious - photos of the trip on the many social media outlets we all have at our fingertips.  Catalogues arrive daily suggesting the perfect gift for that special someone in your life, there are more photos of love and joy and festivities and more couples and ohmygod remember that YOU are single reminders than anyone should have to deal with in one season.  Over the course of a few weeks I felt like I was turning a darker shade of Grinch green by the minute.   Because here's the truth.  As much as it's not just about the boy - because it's NOT, it shouldn't make me less of a person or a feminist or an independent, educated adult with many interests, to actually admit that yes, there is also another corner of my life I would like to see fulfilled, right? 

But back to this recent Grinchy feeling lurking underneath my skin. I really wanted a Christmas tree this year. And not a little two foot fella that's already on a stand like I've purchased in the past, either.  Those are totally wonderful and fine and I would be willing to bet I'll purchase another one exactly like that at some point again in my life.  But for some reason, THIS year, I had my heart and mind focused like a holiday laser beam on a real tree, picked out from a real tree lot, wrapped up and bundled in classic tree lot fashion; one I'd schlep up the stairs to my third story apartment in true urban holiday style.

But, oh, I was also unmotivated to take myself down to my neighborhood tree lot.  Mostly because I knew I'd be partaking in this Christmas tree adventure...wait for it...alone. 

Last Saturday night, I was making my way home from Target, my Scrooge mood still lingering, but gratefully subsiding ever so slightly.  (At least I know myself well enough to know these moods that hit me do not last forever.)  The route home from Target just happens to take me past my neighborhood tree lot.  With a quick shrug of my shoulders I turned into the gravely lot, solo tree hunt be damned.  $40 and twenty minutes later, I walked away with a little four foot tree wrapped up in netting, happy to get acquainted with this new piece of pine I'd be living with for the next few weeks.  After a few battles with the tree stand and multiple adjustments followed by re-adjustments to straighten the darn thing, we were finally up and running, just in time for me to pass out in bed, exhausted. 

It was the following night that I picked out a Spotify Christmas playlist, turned up the tunes as loud as my computer would let me, and dug out my box of Christmas decorations.  I sang to myself as I strung my hundreds of white lights, my mood lightening with each twinkle light I hung.  By the time I was on to the ornaments, I knew without question I'd made the right decision to go ahead and buy my little tree.  Yes, the holiday commercials will still irk me, and there will surely be another holiday party or two that I walk into without a date on my arm, but I have to say that overall my Grinchy mood has departed; buried along with the ghosts of Christmas past.

When I made that spontaneous turn into the tree lot last weekend I thought about a quote I read not too long ago, in an issue of Harper's Bazaar earlier this fall.  The author was talking about psyching herself up to wear something out of her fashion comfort zone; of taking a risk before walking out the door.  As an avowed clothes horse I loved her quote in the fashion sense immediately, though lately I've come to love it on a larger, grander, this is your life sort of scale.

"If you can't play with fashion, what's the point of it?  After more than a few years on this planet, God willing, a girl has earned a little confidence.  While what you wear changes how people see you, it's you who need to bring it.  To my reflection I said, "fuck it, it's Paris," and I walked out the door."

Years ago I read a book where the protagonist would say to herself, whenever she got nervous or scared to do or say something, "In the course of a lifetime, what does it matter?"  I have long since forgotten the character's name and honestly, I am not even entirely sure of the book's title. That line has stuck with me for so many years though and has been what I've leaned on throughout countless dramas and challenges - some big, some tiny.  I rely on that sentence in times of worry or fear, always. I find that just whispering it aloud to myself gives me an instant sense of perspective; a chance to realize that most of the time - almost all of the time - it's far better to take the risk, to do the deed, to make the leap because, really - In the course of a lifetime?  It probably doesn't matter all that much.

When I made that spontaneous turn into the tree lot on Saturday evening, I thought about that other quote, the one I mentioned above about fashion and risks.  I might not live in Paris, and it might not always apply to my clothing choices, but I like to think I can apply that attitude no matter where I live, no matter what obstacle or fear or worrisome challenge might be in front of me or lurking up in my own brain.

"Fuck it, it's Paris." And then I square my shoulders and walk right on out that proverbial door.