That color looks great on you! Translation: I hate your old jacket!

Well, it was bound to happen.  The angelic euphoria of the pre-Christmas psyche finally gave way to the post-Santa/bummed out/I feel entirely let down/back to normal crapola existence. 

Actually, it hasn’t been that bad, but when your own entitled Daughter essentially accuses you of “mailing it in” for the holidays, where do you go from that? 

I’ll tell you where — back to the mall!  I’m strangely smug on December 27th because I still have money in my pocket due to the fact I’ve not previously blown two month’s salary on gifts with a shelf-life of about two hours.  That’s not to say, of course, that someone else in the house has done exactly that without my knowledge, but I gave up looking at the checkbook years ago simply because I could do without the stress. 

It’s sad, but I’m generally okay if I go to the ATM and I’m able to withdraw money.  My threshold for financial knowledge and happiness is, admittedly, very, very low. 

So, the sequence for the extended holiday season goes something like this:

1)  Cook Thanksgiving dinner – Spend the next week recovering from the physical exhaustion involved and wondering, yet again, exactly how long gravy lasts in the fridge.

2)  Get my light-hanging/decoration mojo on – Usually happens about a week after Turkey Day, but (famously) didn’t happen this year.  A new trend, perhaps?  Time will tell.

3)  Christmas shopping – For me, I have radically streamlined this bit.  My Significant Other now handles this part 99.9%.  I am able to spend roughly two hours a couple of days before Christmas doing what I need to do in this department, and that includes buying stocking treats for the Dandy Dog!  Awesome.

4)  Attend Christmas Eve Church Service – I mean to do this every year, but can’t remember the last time I did because (of Number 5 below) . . . .

5)  Bag and Sand Luminarias - In a feverish bout of middle-class thrift (some [I know who you are] may even term it cheapness), I spend at least an hour rooting around in the garage on Christmas Eve trying to locate last year’s luminaria bags (Is Baby Jesus screwing around with me?), with the goal of never having to buy another one ever again.  The only issue:  “That one’s looking a little burnt, Dad,” or, “They don’t seem to be all white anymore,” or, “What’s that stain on that one?” 

I can put up with those kinds of comments.  It’s a small price to pay. 

But in the end, what should take all of fifteen minutes late in the afternoon on Christmas Eve typically morphs into two or more hours, which then causes me to be completely unmotivated to complete Item Number 4 above.

6)  Christmas morning unwrap presents, cook massive Christmas Day breakfast (pancakes and such), and then spend the rest of the day cooking massive Christmas Dinner – We did the presents (√), microwaved breakfast (X – m’wave doesn’t count), and went to our lovely neighbor’s house for a lovely meal this year (√).  Yay!

7)  Store Christmas presents (until some later time when they may appear more useful or attractive – frequently never happens) -  March 2014:  “Yep, I’m thinking now might be the time I break out that foot bath massager from ’06!  My dogs are barking.” 

8)  Return Christmas presents – This one’s very touchy, for two reasons — weathering the ire of the “Gifter” (“Oh, that color looks great on you.  The sleeves will ride up with wear.  Everyone wears The North Face - why can’t you?”); and weathering the suspicion of the Muggle Clerk (“This looks like someone’s worn it.  Has someone worn it?  What’s that smell?”). 

Fortunately, I’m a master at dealing with the issues in Number 8 above.  In fact, the older I get, the less grief I seem to encounter — on all fronts.  I suppose most people intuitively feel sorry for a guy with gray hair, wearing shorts in December, and who utters “What?” and “Hunh?” as every third word.  As I’ve discovered, it’s an effective cover for what can essentially be pretty messy business.

But all that leads me to Number 9.

9)  Deal with parking lot morons – Though many of those who know me well will disagree with the following assertion, I have grown much more mellow over the years (no doubt this statement will result in some future blog post from Daughter, claiming an indeterminate amount of emotional scarring from Yours Truly over her lifetime).  Yes, I used to get worked up fairly easily over really inconsequential things — I won’t embarrass myself any further with a laundry list), but for the most part I’m a “turn the other cheek, live and let live, don’t hassle me, man” kind of guy now. 

Except in parking lots. 

I don’t know how widespread the following phenomenon is, but I don’t think I’m imagining that the spaces themselves have gotten smaller over the last decade while the vehicles many drive have exploded in girth.  In our general locality, it’s not uncommon for Uber-SUVs to routinely squeeze into two spaces, rather than the one us lesser mortals in beater Miatas have to use.  I suppose given the overall decline in the driving ability of the Average American woman female Driver, I shouldn’t be too surprised, and I usually just smile to myself and whip into a space farther from the store, appreciative of the extra exercise.  I imagine myself to be very Zen-like in this way.

Of course, I’m not. 

So, last Thursday evening, I have to return a gift jacket for a smaller size (“Hey, you can put, like, six layers of clothes under that thing.  It’s an XL.”)  Useful, perhaps, but I don’t live in Minnesota. 

Because of the aforementioned SUV zoo, I park fairly distant from the Big Box I’m headed for, and as I’m walking toward the entrance, I see a pick-up truck zooming along the access road in front of the store.  It wasn’t an SUV, and it was driven by a guy.  Point taken.

He saw me walking up, and I saw him.  And he wasn’t going to slow down. 

The older, Zen-Me would have acknowledged the situation, nodded internally to Buddha, and high-fived a thousand angels, while I paused and blithely watched him roll by. 

I don’t know where that Zen-Me guy went, however, as I just kept walking, simply knowing the pick-up would slow down and let me pass.  After all, in the United States of America, pedestrians have the right of way, dammit.     

Well, he did very grudgingly reduce his speed and let me pass, but I could tell he wasn’t happy about it.  Perhaps, he hadn’t received that 30-round clip for his M-16 he asked from Santa.  I don’t know.   But as I walked into Sports Authority, he rolled down his window and yelled something to me. 

Wrong night, dude.  Zen-me was nowhere to be found. 

Something tripped inside me, and I simply turned around and launched into a stream of consciousness tongue-lashing regarding pedestrian rights and his general attitude.  Once I said my peace, I continued with my business and went in open front doors of the store.  I had uttered no profanities.

In fact, to be honest, I hadn’t understood a single word the guy in the truck said to me.  I know he was upset, but because my hearing is so awful, I didn’t really have any idea of his actual words.  I do suspect, however, they weren’t ”Merry Christmas, Friend!”

I guess not hearing well is, ultimately, very Zen-like.  Or at least it has the appearance of being so.  Or one might imagine that hearing impairment is guiding one along the pathway to Zen-like wisdom.

Or maybe not. 

Anyway, when I crossed the threshold of the store’s doors, the Muggle Clerks were just staring at me, jaws agape.  They had heard the commotion outside and didn’t know what to make of it.

I told them I wanted to swap my XL for an L, and they didn’t have one in stock.  But the guy at the front desk was incredibly helpful, sourced one at another location, and had them put it on hold for me.  It took all of five minutes. 

I don’t know whether he was scared of me, or was just trying to help an older guy wearing shorts in December. 

Time will tell.

- Dad