Greetings from a Curmudgess

Photo by Brett Sayles on Pexels.com

Some things just cause people to jump to conclusions about you. Like, for instance, saying that you (and by you, I mean me) are not a Christmas Person.

See, this is not a complaint about Christmas. I am not casting aspersions upon those of you, and you are legion, who love, no—adore, Christmas. I get it. Well, I sort of get it. I just somehow don’t seem to have the Christmas gene.

I admit to this trait with some trepidation. I mean, I still consider myself a good person. But perhaps my worst fears have been realized, and I have become, in my later years, the female version of a curmudgeon. Is there a female form of that moniker? Curmudgess, perhaps? If that is not a word, it should be and I shall use it from now on.

This is not a recent occurrence. I may have started down this path back in my thirties, the year I decided, two weeks before Christmas, that I would hand-make a teddy bear for my young daughter. My intentions, as they say, were good. But I am afflicted with a disease that affects a number of my family members. There is a name for it. My maiden last name is Murray and the affliction is called “Murray Time.” Murray Time is when you decide to take a run to the grocery store at 2:00 in the morning and are shocked to find it closed. Or when you leave for work at 7:45 AM for a job that starts at 8:00 AM and is forty-five minutes away. Or when you have dinner guests coming at 7:00 PM and start shopping for ingredients at 6:00 PM. Like that.

But, back to the teddy bear. I found all the required parts, including little disks that would allow the arms and legs to move, fuzzy fabric, and an adorable pattern, at a local craft store. I bought thread and trim, including a festive doll sweater I could use on this little guy. But the actual sewing process, oh my. That was a challenge and I would have been wise to allow myself more time to fix the inevitable mistakes. It was—with all due respect to persons who suffer horrible experiences—a horrible experience. I completed the bear to my daughter’s delight but in this process a Curmudgess was born.

There are many other instances I could name and perhaps my argument with Christmas is that so many of these instances seem to occur in that critical week right before the magical date. Of course they do.

Like, for instance, the time I felt so proud of myself because I completed all my Christmas baking a month early. In my case, Christmas baking consists of making a substantial number of individual breads, such as cranberry, date, banana, and a few others, wrapping them, and freezing them until Christmas morning, when I place them in cute little gift bags to give to everyone in my extended family. Well, this particular year, my freezer was full so I decided to place the completed breads in containers and store them in my pantry. I had forgotten about mold, which, to my horror, had not forgotten about me and had invaded each and every one of the little loaves when I wasn’t looking. All ruined. Curmudgess time.

Or, how about this? There was that time I stored all my Christmas decorations in the attic, and discovered when I went to retrieve them that there had been a leak in the roof right over them. Of course, it was late on Christmas Eve. Talk about mold. Fa la la.

There are many more examples, however I am tired now and must put these thoughts from my troubled mind. On the bed behind me, spritely holiday wrapping paper lies in wait. Or, is it lays in wait? I should look that up. Yes, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll go online and look up the proper use of lay and lie. That way, I will have no time to wrap presents or bake breads. Then, tomorrow I can get in full Curmudgess mode and find a way to avoid it all again.

But the lights on the tree—they are pretty, aren’t they? Oh, and there’s that Christmas carol I love . . ..

Christmas greetings,

Maura Beth Brennan

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