’Tis the Stress Season

THE HOLIDAYS ARE HERE. For me, the Christmas season brings back memories—along with anxiety and stress.

Let’s review the stress first. Where are we going to have Christmas dinner and who will come? Getting everyone together is virtually impossible.

Next come the decorations. It wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t stacked this way and that in a storage locker. When we moved to a condo, we converted to an artificial tree. It looks real from two feet away, but it’s stored in four pieces and weighs a ton. Wouldn’t you know it? It’s at the back of the storage locker located in our building’s garage.

We have enough decorations collected from our travels to trim five trees and two houses, and yet something new pops up each year. Isn’t that so cute? I see a black lab ornament in our future this year to celebrate our daughter’s new puppy. Our collection of Cape Cod ornaments alone fills a large box.

I’m faced with major decisions. Do I set up the Christmas villages and my electric trains? Darn heavy stuff and not many people see them. Alas, tradition prevails. Those trains were my father’s, from 1920.

My wife decorates every room in the house, plus our balcony. Where did I put all those extension cords, timers and spare bulbs? Are we having fun yet?

I like Christmas, I really do, but as a kid, I don’t remember all the stress, aggravation and work involved. Could it be my parents and grandparents did it all?

Gifts are also a source of stress. At least my wife and I stopped giving presents to each other several years ago. Instead, we each fill the other’s stocking with a few trinkets and lottery tickets. But that’s not true for our four children, their spouses and the 13 grandchildren. What will I get everyone?

I recall presents that were real doozies. One year, I splurged and gave my wife a giant microwave that was nearly impossible to lift. The fact that our marriage survived past Christmas morning was that year’s miracle. Every Christmas, my adult children remind me about that gift.

Many years ago, I was feeling successful and dipped into savings to buy my wife a red fox fur jacket. It cost $1,500, which back then was a hefty sum. Connie was pleased and she wore it, but it seemed more and more I had to suggest she put it on when we were going out. Turns out she felt it made her look like a teddy bear. Old Foxy still hangs in the back of her closet, not having seen the light of day in decades.

Memories from my childhood are still fresh. I grew up in a small city in North Jersey, a few miles from Newark and about a 30-minute drive from New York City. We had several department stores in town—malls didn’t exist. One mall was subsequently built on land that had been a dairy farm, with horse stables and a black Angus cattle ranch. Yup, in North Jersey.

Christmas was a big deal. Every department store had a Santa or Santa’s helper, many times in the store window with Mrs. Claus. One store, Kresge’s in Newark, had a monorail running beneath the ceiling of the toy floor. You could have lunch with Santa for a small fee—at least, I think it was small.

At another store, Santa gave me a wrapped present each year. I always seemed to get Tiddledy Winks. I suspect it was because my mother always chose the 25-cent gift instead of the 50-cent, 75-cent or $1 presents.

My all-time favorite Christmas shopping occurred in my young married days. What to buy, what size, what color? There was a small department store nearby called J.M. Towne—now long gone—that on a certain night each week around Christmas held a men’s night. You sat in a nice chair, sipped cocoa and ate cookies, while the sales ladies shopped based on your general criteria and then wrapped your choices.

The result wasn’t any better than my own unassisted effort, with many of the gifts quickly returned. It was fun, however. Eventually, I resolved to stay with jewelry. Baubles seem to keep well.

My favorite time is Christmas night. It’s all done, over, quiet, and I sit in my chair by the glowing fireplace sipping eggnog, listening to carols and staring at the tree. Oh, forget that. Because we’ve moved, the tree is now in another room.

As we get closer to the big day, I’m trying to get into the mood. Facing that storage locker takes fortitude. I get the same stressed feeling opening that door as I do entering a Home Depot. What am I doing here?

Richard Quinn blogs at QuinnsCommentary.net. Before retiring in 2010, Dick was a compensation and benefits executive. Follow him on X (Twitter) @QuinnsComments and check out his earlier articles.

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