by Dave Friant
That special season. The tail end of another year with the usual indicators stepping forward to take their bows. The leaves and temps falling again at rates that befuddle the yard guy and our favorite local weatherman. Not so carefully packed decorations, in differently weighted storage bins with barely legible hand-written SHARPIE identifiers on them, getting temporarily paroled from the attic. Wasps seeming to skedaddle from the fireplace after opening the flue and scaring those close by half-to-death.
Yep. Another Christmas on the horizon where we celebrate the birth of Christ and get festive in a variety of ways.
Thanksgiving is the official green flag for the holiday season. Family and friends gather to thank the Lord for a variety of blessings. Scrumptious food being forked and spooned into the gullet by most attendees during that special Thursday. Males additionally assembling for 4 quarters of gridiron mayhem – watching JJ’s skitzo boys from Arlington and preparing key armchair quarterbacking points to be made with buddies during the upcoming week.
Excess poundage is no longer anything close to visually disguised during the stretch from turkey day to Christmas. Employment parties. Get-togethers with church groups. Visits from family and friends. All are ripe for a feeding frenzy during those 30 days. I’m admittedly an offender each year. Adverse spousal comments concerning the more noticeable widening gap between the shirt buttons are usually ignored. Runs on purchases of industrial size canisters of Tums and rolls of Charmin are made at our local supermarket. Aisles 3 and 4 if you’re scoring at home.
Black Friday for a high percentage of ladies (spouse and daughter in our case) is a before sunup day where bigtime values are sought at the expense of near death experiences at shopping locations. It’s an additional day of rest besides the Sabbath for most guys. Raids on fridges for whatever leftovers were jammed in 24 hours earlier are the primary duties for the day. Additionally, feed the dog(s) and let them out at least twice for urinary relief.
Chances are a decent college football game or other watchable sporting event can be tuned in on the tellies as we relax and further expand our bellies.
The final week between those highlighted dates on the tattered last page of the calendar is typically the time when I begin and finish my shopping. I’m an adult male. Seems it’s in our DNA to be major league procrastinators when it comes to holiday shopping. Some view it as comparable to a root canal conducted by a first-year dental school graduate.
My standard practice is to get in and out ASAP. Have an idea of what to purchase, take some anxiety meds before leaving the house, and refrain from being combative (visually or otherwise) with other dilly-dalliers. Prepare for scowls from a few Scrooges. It’s that special time of the year.
My spouse is for all intents and purposes my only responsibility in terms of gift-giving. As years have passed, any once held practice of ingenuity on my part in terms of what to purchase has vanished like light snow flurries on a moderately warm San Antonio driveway. She gives me 2nd grade-level “hints” on a few options that float her boat. Perfume and jewelry typically make the podium as gifts during most years. I do from time to time roll the dice with athletic wear purchases. Fitting concerns (too long, too tight, wrong material) for the most part override any intended joy when packages are opened. On occasion, we go the sharing route and allow some moderately priced home improvement project or an extended weekend to somewhere special to be our gift to one another.
Not sure if the antics associated with the presidential election played a part, but seems this year’s 30+ days of holiday commotion snuck up on me quicker than in prior years. The beard is grayer. Memory issues and reduced speed at which common functions are performed seem to be knocking at the door. Toss some elements of arthritis with other ailments into the mix. But I’m confidently in my own mind only still on the outskirts of male geezerhood. The calendar does not define me.
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