Blaming Norman Rockwell
It’s official. It’s Christmas in Pittsburgh. Friday was Light-Up Night. There were tree-lighting ceremonies, carolers and fireworks (that last one is more Fourth of July than Christmas, but we Yinzers love our Roman candles). We have a few more days till Thanksgiving, but it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Everywhere you go. The season has begun. My breathing is suddenly more labored than Sandra Bullock’s in the last half of “Gravity.”
I love the holidays. I really do. But I’m freaking out before Black Friday. I may love the holidays too much. I might be in an obsessive-compulsive relationship with the holidays.
I have this idea in my head of the perfect Christmas. It’s a Rockwellian image of the perfect family gathered at a pristine dinner table smiling and laughing. I don’t know whose family that is, but it isn’t mine. Yes, we love each other, but trying to get us all to do anything at the same time is a near miracle. It’s easier to train cats to line dance (Author’s Note: Cats can’t “Cha Cha Slide” because their paws don’t make a clapping sound).
I’m already panicking about the holiday logistics. I remember when I would come in from L.A. for the season. I ran a tight schedule. Unpack at my parents, go to my brother Brian’s house for hors d’oeuvres, zip over to my brother Rick’s house for dinner and holiday cheer. By midnight, I was out with my friends. It’s fun, but it’s exhausting.
One year after moving back to Pittsburgh, I had to go to Brian’s house alone for the first time. He had only recently moved into a new house, and I had never driven there by myself before. I showed up on the front porch with an armful of gifts. I rang the bell. Some guy answered it. I didn’t recognize him, but I said, “Merry Christmas!” He smiled and said “Merry Christmas!” right back to me. I saw kids I didn’t recognize run to the door to greet me. I thought, “Someone must have invited them.” And again, I said, “Merry Christmas!” I don’t know who those kids were, but they were happy to see me. I assumed they were friends or distant cousins of my brother’s wife. In retrospect, their happiness must have been caused by the armful of presents. Then, I saw a yellow Labrador and said, “Whose dog?” The owner of the house said, “It’s our dog.” It slowly dawned on me AND my host that I was at the wrong house. My brother lived next door.
While it’s an entirely true story, it reflects my scheme for dealing with the holidays this year. Everyone has their ideal Christmas in their head, and it’s hard to match the expectation. When it strays from the plan, the trick is to not rail against the changes, but to embrace the change and smile. Put that smile on your face and say, “Merry Christmas,” “Happy Holidays,” or whatever. Smile and wish everyone well even if everything is completely different. It is step two in my two-step plan. Step one is “make sure you have the right address.”