The delightful masochism of holding out on ripping open those deliciously wrapped morsels of love any day prior to the 25th, the thrill of opening that very first present, the forced laughing at a present from "Santa," suspiciously written with Uncle Ohthatguy's penmanship, the effort that goes into expressing surprise and delight and squelching one's dismay at another worthless trinket from Aunt Soandso ... man, I used to love Christmas.
Not so much anymore. Not so much when my hard-earned (and, at this point, nonexistent) money goes to people with whom I've spent the entire year fighting. Not so much when I have to psyche myself up, to prepare myself, to drug myself up for spending mere hours with The Family. When I have to damage control everything that comes out of everyone's mouth. When I have to drown myself in merlot.
I don't like the obligation of this particular season guilts friends into calling me and I spend the whole conversation trying to get them off the phone. When I guilt myself into calling people and spend the whole conversation trying to throw in, "My toaster's on fire, gotta go."
Most of all, I don't like having to look back on the year and sigh at the severe lack of accomplishments. The only satisfaction derived from this obligatory act is that I didn't really have any goals for the year. But that's depressing in and of itself.
[Insert clever and slightly optimistic conclusion here.]
Oo, Space Ghost is on.