Bah, Humbug

I suspect that I am not alone in my procrastination.  My wife asks me if I've finished my Christmas shopping and I just smile.  Needled further for an explanation, I surrender such phrases as "Maybe," or the duplicitous, "You'll never know." A loving smile seals my fate as a no-good rotten liar.  In fact, I never shop 'til Christmas Eve.  I justify such behavior with the idea that now that the vendor has realized that they have way too much inventory and way too little in the way of receipts, they'll practically pay me to empty their burgeoning shelves.

Of course, having to park one hundred fifty yards from the nearest aforementioned merchandisers, I am smug in my assurance that exercise is a good thing, especially for a middle-aged man that spends far too much time on his keister.  Pushing my way to an entrance, holding the door open for the entering and exiting fools like myself, I consider what it is that I'm doing there.  I grow sullen at the outright flagrant foul of having to spend resources to fulfill the societal expectations of a holiday run amok.  I also fear the vacant stares and managed smiles of those who receive my paltry expressions of affection.

Lost in a private reverie of the ridiculousness of celebrating the Savior's birth three months before he was actually born, I push in front of a portly woman who has eyed the same last copy of "Southern Soup Recipes," which would bring at least a measure of gratitude for my spouse, who eats soup like a prisoner, to the bottom of the bowl and every single day of her life.  The woman whose lust for the book has now grown insistent, outweighs me by fifty pounds.  With the small residual effects of my athletic past, I snatch the book to my breast, then begin scanning the pages.  I don't reveal that I'm aware of the large woman's sneer.  This too is gratifying and serves to further justify my last-minute voyage taken once a year.  In my wretched soul, I like the feeling of catching the touchdown pass with no time on the clock.

The minutes become hours and one of my knees has tricked out.  I hobble around the bookstore looking for something that would be of interest to my wife's parents.  Through their wisdom and frugality born of earlier hardships, they lack nothing in their lives, save children free of problems.  That quandary leaves me wishing I could purchase a freedom of anxiety for them, to let them know that despite the dead-level systematic nature of our current condition, we will be fine, our commitment solid.

I return to the venue of my seventh celebration of all things Mandevillian, hiding the paltry offerings in the closet of the room which for a week, will be our home.  The wrapping and tagging will occur on the third floor of their spacious estate, upon a pool table lain dormant.  The shouts and warnings against spoiling the surprises of the next day will become a din.  The idle conversations will form bonds.  My cynical heart will soften.