(That Thing I Do)

Christmas Isn’t Christmas

Christmas used to be a season of excitement for me. As a kid, it meant more toys. Despite the general spend-absolute-as-necessary domestic financial culture which my parents used to practice while I was still living under their roof, Christmas would be the exception, when my parents would spend a lot on gifts for me. Christmas, then, was all about having it all, having the license to do anything I wanted, and eat anything I wanted. In essence, Christmas as a child was a sneak peek into my future as an adult, minus all the bills and responsibilities.

As I grew into my teens, I was still lavished upon every Christmas, but the meaning of Christmas started leaning more towards the spirit camaraderie and fellowship among friends and family. Carols were sung and feasts were shared in holiday spirit.

Over the last few years, the sentiment and tradition of Christmas have devolved into little more than an obligatory day off. The mood of gift-giving (and receiving) is an unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable ritual. Nobody comes home anymore. Actually, where is home? I’m not sure anymore. They say it’s where the heart is, but that doesn’t really explain anything.

The familiar spirit and tradition of Christmas had died. It is a bitter truth and many of us acknowledge silently and secretly, afraid that saying it out loud might ruin any hope of its revival.

Well, I say let’s create new traditions.

I notice a trend over the last few Christmasses. People have been going to pubs veryregularly for their pints of ice cold Guinness draft. I love my ice cold Guinness draft, but I wouldn’t go so far as to have it practically every day, though it’s hard not to, since they have happy hour prices at various pubs everyday .

It would seem that Guinness has displaced Christmas. I suppose it would be more apt, then, that I wish everyone a Merry Guinness.

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