As I decorate my Christmas tree, I’m reminded of different themes I've adopted over the years. One year, it was all blue and purple ornaments; the next year was all red and green. One year was all angels, and another was all Santas. I went through a Victorian stage and a rustic folk art stage. I would comb through stores, looking for decorations that fit my motif, and then ponder my creation with a tiny dose of smugness at my aesthetic vision. Some years, as I channeled Martha Stewart, I’d even tie in a ‘gift wrapping’ theme with my house decorations. I have no idea where that person is now, but she’s long gone. I still love to decorate my house, but now the theme is “Ornaments That Have Managed To Not Get Broken.” I have a 6-foot-tall fake tree that I bought at KMart eight years ago for $20. It actually sheds pine needles, like a real tree, but I think it’s due to a lack of quality design rather than whimsy.
In my first apartment back in Philadelphia, I bought a real tree. But, being the scatterbrain that I am, I was lax about watering it and by December 20, it was a fire hazard. By the time I’d dragged it to the apartment complex dumpster, it was a bare stick trailing a path of pine needles. I splurged on another one my first year in California, but my pug Albert viewed it as his very own pee-post, to be marked on repeatedly, even though he was the only male dog who came near it. It’s been a plastic tree for me ever since.
It’s strange that I decorate a tree at all. I don’t spend the holidays here and there are no gifts underneath it for a significant other or children. I do it because it makes me happy to see it lit up at night, and because it’s something I’ve always had. So the tradition will stand at least until every plastic needle has fallen off the plastic frame, or every ornament is broken. Until then:
O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!
Such pleasure do you bring me!
