The 12 days of Christmas are sweet and all but where’s the reality? Right here, people.
We know it. You know it.
There are probably more than 12 terrors of Christmas but we don’t want to bring the mood down. It’s a round, Christmass-y number, 12 is fine … maybe one or two will resonate for you.
No.1
We should be prepared. After all, it comes around on the same date every year. But we never are. Melbourne Cup should be the tripwire. As the champagne-and-chicken fog clears on the first Wednesday of the month, the sudden but short-lived realisation Christmas is coming should wake us all up to the need to shop (a whole other terror), plan ahead, get ourselves organised. Never happens. Before you know it, the Big Day is bearing down on you like the southbound express and you’re standing dumbstruck in its tracks.
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No.2
People who have everything are the festive season’s toughest challenge. Invariably, they’re well off and have a history of buying you thoughtful and expensive pressies. You on the other hand shop at Aldi, tend to live from week to week and are at a complete loss when it comes to reciprocating. That trumpet you’ve found in the centre aisle while shopping for groceries? You should perhaps reconsider.
No.3
We’ve established you’ve left your run too late. So by the time you’ve found a parking spot in a different hemisphere from the shopping centre and sweated your way to the entrance, you’ve probably forgotten the hell that awaits inside. Jingle bells, squalling children, cranky shoppers laden with bags and with murder in their eyes, more jingle bells, lines to the checkout that snake through the whole store, jingle bells again, and that horrible realisation when you’re finally lugged eight tonnes of gifts (most of which are destined for landfill) back to your car that you’ve forgotten to buy the gift for your nephew. The horror.
No.4
‘Tis the season to be … fuming with road rage. You live on the coast because it’s scenic, quiet and relaxed. Trouble is every city dweller thinks the same and arrives at the same time. In their quest for relaxation they turn the highway into a car park and the car parks into World War III. What took you 10 minutes now takes an hour and a half.
No.5
The questions start about four weeks out. “Why don’t you spend Christmas Day with us?” You’re too polite to say no and you find yourself trapped when the other branch of the family asks the same question. Not wanting to offend anyone you agree to both venues. That means one of you has to be deso driver, enduring hours of other people’s drunkenness while travelling between dinners stone cold sober.
No.6
“We must catch up before Christmas.” How many times have you heard that? How many times have you thought to yourself, “We haven’t caught up all year for a reason. I don’t really know you and don’t have a desire to.” Yet, we nod wanly, say yes and then spend the next few days concocting an excuse for not showing up. “Sorry, my daughter Chlorine’s come down with yellow fever.”
Then there are the parties. After a tough year – and they’re tougher every year – what you really want is time out from people. You know, a Stan or Netflix binge watch with a bottle of sauvignon blanc. You accept there will be one good gathering but don’t know which one it will be so don’t commit to any. Before you know it, it’s Christmas Eve and you haven’t caught up with anyone. Bargain if you’re a misanthrope; not so good if you end up sorry the whole thing passed you by.
No.7
We all have one, that embarrassing relative we’ll call Uncle Reg. He’s the one who tells the same stories every Christmas, drops a silent but violent fart at the table and blames the dog (which passed away six years ago), tells the sexist/racist joke and is always the first to send the glass of merlot barrelling across the table and all over Auntie Gwen’s white resort wear. The curious thing is that by virtue of his drinking and smoking, he should no longer be with us but he’s harder to kill than a cockroach.
No.8
It seems like such a great idea. The Christmas ham, glazed and dotted with cloves, ready to receive the Dijon. Yum. By day four, you’ve sworn off ham sandwiches for the rest of your life and are cursing the leg that’s taken all the room up in the fridge where your beer should be.
No.9
Well not quite but it can feel like it, especially if you’ve missed the council rubbish pick up. Driven by fear we won’t have enough, we buy too much. And as we know prawns plus Christmastime heat equals a smell like no other. The tip here: buy less and sneak the heads into the bin of a house at least six blocks from yours (kidding, just kidding).
No.10
Christmas was designed in the northern hemisphere. It’s a winter thing. That means it’s free of beetles and much more enjoyable. Let’s face it, there’s nothing pleasant about a beetle getting caught in your hair or landing in your dessert. And when there are squadrons of them kamikaze-diving your Christmas dinner, the north pole looks very inviting indeed. Heck, even Murmansk looks attractive when the beetle apocalypse descends.
No.11
You’ve filled up on turkey and the afternoon is wearing on. Roast turkey, as we know (well, we don’t but a girl told us so at a party), contains an opiate-like compound that makes us want to sleep. All well and good because there’s nothing like the Christmas afternoon nap. But there’s the needy guest, the close talker who’s had too many sherries and is spilling her life story. The rest of the crew has dispersed to play totem tennis, grab a hammock, blow up stuff on the X-Box and you and Cheryl Needy are the last ones standing. She doesn’t register the cues – the head listing to starboard, the eyes glazing – and keeps burbling on until nightfall.
No.12
You’d think we’d have learnt come December 26.