‘Tis the week before Christmas, and all through the house
There is chaos and exhaustion, and I just “offed” a mouse.
Christmas will be here in a few days. I guess I’m ready, although my house is in utter disarray. But then, so am I. I have spent the past six weeks in mindless consumption. My irrational rationale seems to think that holiday calories should not count with the same malignant, body-expanding impact as the other months of the year. My irrational metabolism thinks otherwise.
It occurs to me that in this month of mirth, there are melodies to celebrate the birth, but not the girth. No anthems for the slothful and waddlesome. No carols for the corpulent. Pity, really. I notice this dearth because in the past six weeks, my heart has grown, but so have my other component parts. I am still anatomically correct…just more so. Of course, I could display some self-restraint as I put on the feedbag and debase myself at the fleshpot. But that would require some modicum of behavior modification, and that is in direct opposition to my standards of decorum.
However, I suppose it is up to me to remedy this musical oversight for those of us moderately to morbidly obese.
So here goes. I only hope the MoTab Choir includes these sentiments in their portfolio.
(Sung very roughly to the tune of “I’ll Be Home For Christmas.”)
I’ll be fat for Christmas.
I won’t count calories.
Please have mo
Sour cream and potato
For poundage round my knees.
I’ll be fat for Christmas.
I’ll be a bigger size.
Please bake pies
To swell my thighs
And ignore me if I cry.
I’ll be fat for Christmas,
Pass the cookies and cream.
I’ll be fat for Christmas,
And bursting at the seams.
It’s not exactly Irving Berlin, but my lyrics don’t bring a tear to the eye…just dimples to the thigh. I admit I suffer from over-eating remorse. I regret all the peristalsis required to digest meals of great quantity. Unfortunately, I become contrite AFTER consuming, and then begin the ritual of shouting impotent threats to impale myself on the nearest candy cane as I make my appointment for bi-directional lipo-suction. I need a crowbar and an oil slick just to get into my clothes. I’m not so sure having a multi-chambered stomach is a good thing. Still, I continue to believe there is always a need to sing an ode to wanton indulgence. I embrace excess!
I’m not totally convinced that this is the most wonderful time of the year.
Exhaustion is inherent in every Christmas season. Merchants and salesmen assault shoppers with unremitting advertisements for the latest sales. Crime rates seem to increase in direct proportion to extended mall shopping hours. I actually tried shopping at 5:00 a.m. recently. Within the space of three minutes I became unaware of my surroundings and began reciting the Pythagorian theorum in hopes of transmitting energy to my frayed nerves. Dennis gently led me to the car, whispering reassurances to prevent me from tearing off my clothes and running buck nekkid down the aisles. It was a supreme act of humanitarianism on behalf of the other shoppers.
However, Tuesday was the winter solstice. Starting Wednesday, the days will cease dropping precious minutes of daylight.
So despite discordant declarations of morphing into THE UN-SANTA at clashing intervals, I am quite content to allow Christmas to occur.
All six of our little Yetis will gather at our hearth on Christmas Eve. Their collective decibel level is louder than a carnival barker. Carter is our perpetual punch-line. The high octane level, (part excitement and part astronomical amounts of blood sugar,) causes the tribe to accelerate in a primitive, angular rhythm requiring high speed stop-motion photography to see each of them clearly. They rumble and tumble through the front door like miniature sumo wrestlers, body-slamming each other in an exuberant smack-down to see who can get to the gifts under the tree first.
I personally know that Santa has a high threshold for mischief, because we own a debt greater than the national deficit. I obliterated our budget while single-handedly jump-starting the economy. If Santa strictly adhered to his “Naughty and Nice” code of conduct, it would be much less expensive. Santa is benevolent, if a little mentally defective.
And I am ready. I’ve decorated, baked (that’s a total lie!) wrapped, cleaned, sung Christmas carols, and I’ve called each reindeer by name…(some aliases are best left unrecorded.) And I’ve listened to Asher sing “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” more times than Sarah Palin’s appeared on TV…I never get tired of Asher. The house is a scene of domestic bliss straight out of Dickens.
The only thing left to do now is shout “HOOAH!” at the appropriate times and feign shock at Santa’s generosity…and tolerance. It takes a tremendous amount of time and resources to perpetuate the myth of a paranormal jolly, fat, hairy stranger whose mode of travel defies gravity and contradicts the logic of astrophysicists. But Grandmas are hard wired for saturation gifting.
I won’t be making too many psychological projections for the coming year. Nor resolutions, for that matter. I’ll probably spend the greater portion of the next few months just imposing order from the impending Christmas morning upheaval. But I will watch for new stars in the heavens, no doubt the result of geo-magnetic phenomenon, and
be amazed at the light, not the dark. Black holes are not my thing.
And Dennis will be with me. Merry Christmas.