As I visit Blogland daily, others are busy getting in the spirit of the holidays and decorating anything that will stand still. There is so much inspiration to find with every mouse click that by now I should be fully ready to begin my own journey to the attic to retrieve my hidden treasures. Well, I said I should be, but I am not. No clear reason, just flat not up to the chore right now. See, I don't really have an excuse for not doing it, other than it just feels like one more thing I need to do right now that isn't real high on my priority radar. Period.
Most years I can barely contain my excitement to take the dangerous trip to the attic to retrieve my stash. It is no small endeavor for the weak. Literally. See, I must confess that I have an addiction. It remains hidden from view for 11 months of the year, only to make its presence known for 30 days each year. Much like an alcoholic living in a liquor store, my addiction only becomes public during that fateful trip to the attic to retrieve the Christmas box. I mean boxes. I mean boxes and bags. I mean boxes, bags, and bins. I mean boxes, bags, bins, and barrels. Did I mention BIG boxes, bags, bins, and barrels? Did I also mention the multitude of plastic storage bins too? Did I mention the items that are too large or bulky for boxes, bags, bins, and barrels? Did I mention that they are all heavy boxes, bags, bins, and barrels? Oh, and did I mention they are kept in the attic only accessible by the fold-down-narrow-tiny-steps leading to the secret Christmas Cave? Narrow as in you have to tilt every darn box, bin, bag and barrel sideways and lower it precariously from atop the stairs into the waiting-so-impatiently-arms of your yearly victim below. Did I mention heavy and bulky making it impossible to grasp for any length of time by the tips of your fingers while screaming to the victim, "have you got it? Don't drop it! This one is a little heavy......" Did I mention that the Christmas Cave is at the far end of the attic, (aka, short- fiberglass- insulation -filled, roofing- nails- poking- you- in- the- head, wacking-your-head-on-the-rafters kind of space)? I have given up counting the boxes, bins, bags, and barrels that make the yearly trip. See, each year finds new treasures in the after-Christmas-sales-won't-this-be-cute-next-year-because-it-is-only-$1 boxes are added to the mix.
Now in all fairness, many years I leave a large portion of my stash in the dark recesses of the Christmas Cave. Sometimes by choice, often by the pure fact that my yearly victim pleads total exhaustion compounded by a head injury or shoulder injury from one too many "this one is a little heavy" boxes. This usually puts an end to my treasure hunt, or my need to find bandaides for the blood gushing from my forehead after one-too-many-hits to the rafters or nails. Then, it always happens that the I-must-have-this-one-item-box is usually the one that I have left behind. So, I must make the journey alone, box and all decending the stairs while perching-box-on-head down to safety with my treasure. Once they are all safely stacked (well-sort-of) in the living room, I have to begin the process of opening each box and fondly recalling each and every piece contained within. By this point, the family has left the building, mostly because there is no longer anywhere to sit or stand without risking bodily harm. Then comes the dreaded chore of actually "cleaning" the living room to prepare for the treasures. Daily treasures to stash in dark corners, furniture to move to accommodate room for the tree. This includes moving my free standing-wanna-be-fireplace from its usual spot to another. Dusting, vacuuming hair balls, finding lost gum wrappers-dog balls-cat toys-unidentified objects, etc.
So you see, Christmas decorating for me is not something to be taken lightly. Kind of like training for a marathon. Well, not that I would know about that since Christmas decorating is likely the most physical exercise I participate in all year long. It is not for the weak or tired. It is not for the faint of heart. It is not for those who won't utter a simple "OHH, look, the plaster christmas-tree-napkin-holder-thingy-my-son-made-in-third-grade". It is not for those afraid to empty the canister of the Dyson Pet Hair Vacuum no less than every five minutes to remove the hidden piles of cat hair lurking behind and under furniture. It is not ANYTHING my Prince Charming understands or supports. It is not Anything my children pretend to care about. Until I declare I am finished and it is safe to reenter the former building know as our home. Then, it starts. "But Mom, where is the ceramic Christmas tree Granny made? You know the one we hate that plays the cool music box and lights up?" "But, Mom, where is the string of lights that looks like lanterns that goes in the kitchen?" "But Mom, when are we going to do the OUTSIDE lights?" "But Mom, when are we going to decorate the ugly fake tree you bought so the house wouldn't burn down from the million lights we put on it?" "But Mom, when are we going to make cookies, fudge, and peanut brittle?" Or better yet, Prince Charming says in his very cute cowboy way, "Gee honey, you worked your butt off. Place looks pretty damn good!"
So, for now the house looks nothing like Christmas at all. I just can't bring myself to begin the journey. Lazy? Tired? Stacked to the rafters with work? Not sure what my excuse is, I'm just not ready. Are you?