Every year I try to boycott Christmas. Every year I fail, but that doesn’t stop me trying.
I mean, you buy one friend or family member a gift, then you’re obligated to buy everyone a gift and I’m perpetually broke, so...no. And, I figure, if I’m not buying gifts, why have a tree? If no tree, why any other decoration, and so on and so forth. It’s just one big, sparkly hassle.
Not to mention that obligatory gift-giving seems to morph people into Santa’s Evil Twin: red-cheeked with shopping frustration, huffing and puffing up and down Chadstone’s escalators, bumping each other out of the way with the beginnings of their ‘Christmas season’ gut.
And that’s the other thing – Christmas gifts are almost always 50% chocolate-related. Guaranteed to ruin a year’s worth of “stay away from that chocolate bar!” (occasional) victories. So, every December I ask of people one thing: I don’t buy you a present; you don’t buy me one. Especially if it’s chocolate related.
This year my mother got me a Christmas bag full of Lindt and Ferrero Rocher, along with a $100, and some kitchenware.
Then she managed to lure me over for Christmas Eve celebrations with promises of petrol and food. I had to listen to Christmas carols, pull some bon-bons, and ‘ohh ahh’ at the painfully bright Christmas Tree.
My brother gave me a hippopotamus-shaped bottle opener keyring; my aunties all gave me chocolates and shiny $20 notes (even the aunties with Cancer); and my friends managed to sneak colourfully wrapped alcohol-related trinkets my way.
I accepted all the presents with a grimace smile and a gentle reminder that I DID NOT WANT PRESENTS.
So, now, I look like The Grinch. A chubby Grinch because of all these chocolates. And by chocolates, I mean empty chocolate wrappers.
Christmas, 1; Monica – 0.
Damn you, Christmas.
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