I love the Christmas holiday season, and thanks to all the retailers and carol-blaring radio stations kicking into high gear weeks before Thanksgiving, the season is longer than ever.
But what I really love about Christmas now is that decorating gets better with age because it gets easier with age. Apparently, I’ve discovered one of the few good things about getting old.
Being a geezer is a wonderful excuse to no longer put up the zillion outdoor holiday decorations I once did. Granted, I was no Clark Griswold. But I did put a considerable charge into our electric bill every November and December.
But that was then, and this is now.
No more hanging from a ladder while strings of lightbulbs become more entangled than celebrity romances. No more cursing at bulbs that suddenly refuse to light. No more anchoring Santa Claus and reindeer into the lawn so wicked winter winds don’t blow them halfway to Nebraska.
Now I just hang a Christmas wreath on the exterior of our front door and shine a spotlight on it. For an added but understated flourish, I string just a small strand of lights across our porch bench.
Simply marvelous. And marvelously simple.
Being an elderly gent is equally marvelous indoors during the holiday season.
No longer trekking up an icy mountain to fell a mammoth Christmas tree, then toting it down the mountain, hoisting it on top of my car without taking out the rear and front windshields, carting it into my house without taking out a doorway or two, and erecting it in our family room without putting a hole in the ceiling.
And then spending hours arguing with my lovely wife decorating the sappy tree with a trillion Christmas balls and ornaments, miles of tinsel and once again contending with bulbs that balk at lighting just because they’re strung out. I mean, where’s their Christmas spirit?
But that was then, and this is now.
We have a modest artificial Christmas tree pre-strung with lights whose bulbs all glow with the mere insertion of a plug into an outlet.
Easy peasy.
And a smaller tree translates into fewer decorations to hang and even fewer arguments with my lovely wife.
That’s not the only benefit of being almost as old as Santa.
As the father of young kids, my Christmas Eves were a living hell. As soon as we got them settled in bed — no easy task when they’re totally amped about seeing their gifts in the morning — it was time for me to go into overdrive.
Assembling toys, bikes and furniture with 10 thumbs and an inability to comprehend the accompanying instructions that all seem to be written in Sanskrit. Then wrapping them under the not-so-lovely supervision of my lovely wife. And all this while imbibing in some adult eggnog.
God knows, it was a Christmas miracle we successfully completed that herculean task year after year. And God knows how I prayed there would actually be a Santa Claus who could deliver the gifts and spare us the ordeal.
Indeed, one year I prayed extra hard for God to bring St. Nick to life and was so confident I even hired a chimney sweep to clean out all the cobwebs and soot in our chimney. Alas, my prayers went unanswered.
Trust me, I’ll have a word or two to say about that when I meet my Maker.
But that was then, and this is now.
As a grandfather relaxing in my recliner, I just let my lovely wife buy the Christmas presents for our Fab Five. That’s the ultimate easy peasy.
God, if I only knew old age would make Christmas season even merrier, I would’ve gone out of my way to age more quickly by developing a more abundant appetite for sugar, liquor, smoking, drag racing, steer wrestling and spying for the CIA.
Mike Zielinski, a resident of Berks County, is a columnist, novelist, playwright and screenwriter.
Source: Berkshire mont
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