I’m going to tell you about my Christmas.
I’m not religious. At all. Whatsoever. I’m actually agnostic. It’s not that I hardcore don’t believe, but, well, I don’t believe either. If that makes sense.
In other words, I’m not ruling out that there is a god. Maybe there is. It is a possibility, yes. But I haven’t experienced this god, so I don’t believe. Yet. Maybe I will someday, maybe not. But right now I simply don’t.
I don’t have anything against you if you believe. I think it’s great — I think religion can be life-saving for many people. Just don’t try to push your beliefs on me and we’ll be the best of friends.
I’m not religious but I celebrate Christmas.
Why? Is it for tradition, or family, or the love in the air?
No. It’s for the motherfucking presents.
There, I said it.
I mean, don’t get me wrong. I still have traditions and still enjoy the love in the air. But really, I simply adore to give my loved ones presents. And I know I can do this any time of the year, but I choose to do it on Christmas.
I’m one of those people you hate, because I’ve turned your sacred holiday into a consumerism one.
And you know what? That’s my prerogative. That’s how I do things.
I like shopping for my son (and others) and hiding the presents and wrapping the presents and seeing the look of joy on his (and others’) face(s) when he (and they) tear into the wrapping paper. I like wasting paper, since we just throw it out anyway. I like spending too much money and getting shit people don’t need, because when else are they going to get it?
Before I had my own family, my Christmas used to be about family. Going here and going there and waking up at the asscrack of dawn and rushing out of the house without my coffee.
I hated it. I hated fitting in every single person in one damn day. I hated sitting there, poor, watching them open gifts from every single other person but me. I hated the awkwardness of seeing people I hadn’t for a year and telling them what I was up to and getting judgmental glances.
So I stopped it. That may make it sound like Christmas is for me, but it’s not. It’s for my son.
I celebrate Christmas to spoil my son with everything he doesn’t need and everything he wants, which may or may not involve seeing a few other family members as well, on our own time.
This is my Christmas.
My Christmas is going out on Black Friday, because why shop on another day if I’ll probably find better deals on this one?
My Christmas is donating one (or more) of those toys to a toy drive for kids in need.
My Christmas is going through all of my son’s old toys and donating half of them, too.
My Christmas is waiting to get a tree until the middle of the month, because why keep that enormous thing in the house for more than two weeks?
My Christmas is slowly, over the course of a month, wrapping way too many presents and keeping them hidden from my toddler and somehow finding places for them all under the tree.
My Christmas is waking up whenever the hell we wake up — sometimes early, sometimes late — and opening our presents immediately.
My Christmas is taking some time to let my son play with his new stuff, and enjoying it with him.
My Christmas is realizing that so many other people don’t have it as good as we do, and hoping for them that some day soon they will.
My Christmas is then, after we’re settled with all our nice new stuff, calling our family to see if they want to see us (if we’re not too late).
My Christmas is materialistic. I admit it. But it’s also about my family. Not yours. Not your traditions, not your religion. It’s mine.