Compulsory Christmas

by Sharon Kayne

I did some Christmas shopping today, and I’m happy to say I came away from what can be a horrendous experience completely unruffled. That’s because I’ve built up an immunity to this particular holiday. I see Christmas for what it really is, I accept it, and I get on with life.

I used to love Christmas. When I was in diapers. Now I view the whole overblown consumer orgy with a healthy sense of distaste. When you’re just a tot, Christmas is all about the magic and wonder of twinkling lights, Santa’s laughter, and lots of sweets. Then you hit five or six and you begin to realize that Christmas is really about how much stuff you get. More accurately, it’s about how much stuff you get relative to how much stuff the other kids in your neighborhood got. And unless your dad was an accident/injury lawyer (in which case you would have lived in a better neighborhood than I did), you never seemed to get as much stuff as the other kids. That’s when a gnawing sense of disillusionment begins to creep in. You never forget the magic and wonder, though, and you spend the rest of your life wondering where the hell they went.

By the time you’re grown up, Christmas has become really painful. When you’re an adult, Christmas is no longer about getting stuff. It’s about giving stuff. It’s about giving stuff to people you don’t especially like. It’s about spending enough money that you don’t look cheap without spending so much money that you go broke. It’s about not forgetting to give stuff to someone who’s giving you stuff. And, of course, it’s about them giving you stuff that you don’t particularly want.

We can all pretend the season is about peace and joy and harmony. But the truth is we’re all browbeaten by society to give, give, give—no matter how much distress, hardship and discord it brings into your life. And the undeniable proof is in every American shopping mall. Each year, right after Halloween, stores pop up in malls with the sole purpose of filling the ‘compulsory Christmas gift’ niche. Stores like Hickory Farms that sell stuff nobody ever buys for themselves. Nothing says ‘I had to’ like a cheese log. Nothing says ‘I’ll be damned if I’m going to look like a Scrooge’ more than a mustard sampler. And nothing says, ‘What the hell am I going to do with this?’ more than the long lines at ‘returns and exchanges’ on December 26th.

Nowhere is the compulsory nature of Christmas more painful than at the office party. That’s where everybody draws names to see who gets stuck giving gifts to whom. Then everyone runs down to the nearest Hickory Farms and picks up something really unique and special. I remember one Christmas office party with particular disappointment. It was when I was still with my ex-husband. A cool male co-worker drew his name, and I watched in jealousy while he opened up a beautiful, shiny set of screwdrivers. I got a cut-glass perfume atomizer. I’m allergic to most perfumes so I need a perfume atomizer about as much as I need a repertoire of lesbian love songs. I never used it, and I don’t know where the hell it is now. But somehow, when my ex and I split up, I ended up with the set of screwdrivers, and I use those a lot.

I don’t want you to think I’m a total Grinch. I do enjoy giving gifts to my niece and nephews. And when I find something really fun that I know will tickle a friend of mine, I’ll enjoy giving that. But for those of you who are on my compulsory gift list, let me apologize in advance.

You’re getting a delightful selection of cured meats.

I’ll see you in the ‘returns and exchanges’ line on the 26th.

This classic Citizen Kayne column was originally published the week of December 17-28, 1998, in Crosswinds Weekly, an alternative newspaper based in Albuquerque, NM.

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