Perhaps my lactose-intolerant soul should have skipped the eggnog, because last night I was visited by three spirits; the ghost of Christmas past, present and future. No, really.
The ghost of Christmas past showed up at 2am and flew me back to 1978. We hovered, invisible to the scene below, in my childhood home. A Christmas tree packed full of gifts was laid out on the gold carpet (remember gold carpet?). There I sat in my elf costume: red tights, a satin fur-trimmed skirt and body suit, with a matching hat (What? It was a tap dance costume). I looked like a fuzzy stick of licorice. I was in charge of handing out the presents because I could finally read the tags.
Naturally, I chose a gift for me: an awkwardly-shaped squishy mystery. With great enthusiasm I tore open the wrapping to uncover one slipper. Just one. There was no hiding my confusion, nor my embarrassment as the entire family burst out laughing. Humiliation is the gift that keeps on giving.
Fast forward to dinner, where greedy relatives gathered around to feast wearing those ridiculous coloured paper hats from those horrifying snapping Christmas crackers that reeked of sulphur. The place looked like a secret meeting for the papier mache league. If you didn’t wear one, there were threats of party pooper-ism. I didn’t care. I was seated at the table of shame – the kids’ table – the Siberia of celebrations. While the adults laughed and got louder with each toast, I endured fights with peas for ammunition and two of the most horrendous cousins throwing their “I don’t like this” food remains on my plate. Ugh.
It must have been a dream, I figured, when I woke up at 3 am. That’s when the ghost of Christmas present arrived, shaking a bag of gluten free potato chips by my ear to wake me from my slumber. I liked her. She brought dip. In silence, we sat on the couch and watched sappy Christmas movies. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. Her message to me was clear. In the mayhem of the season, there is nothing wrong with taking time for yourself to indulge in the nostalgia of Christmas. You know what they say; every time a bag of Frito Lays gets opened, an angel gets her wings. Seriously. Look it up. Stress eating over the holidays is legit.
I woke up at 3:30am with crumbs on my pillow and a beautiful angelic light shining over me. I knew this was the ghost of Christmas future. It took me to Dec. 25, just days away. I looked on as the Carpenter stuffed lottery tickets into my stocking, because he forgot the night before. The children didn’t notice because they were plugged into wireless devices. And there I sat, holding a cup of coffee; my face bloated from the potato chip therapy of the night before, but otherwise satisfied that my gluten-free stuffing was ready early. I was happy, relaxed and grateful.
My Christmas wish for you lies in these messages. May you fondly remember the loved ones who are not at your table this year; find a quiet moment to indulge in something slightly naughty; and may you wake up on Christmas day grateful for the gifts in your life that aren’t found under your Christmas tree. The Carpenter and I wish you a very Merry Christmas.