The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Christmas is carnage, said the duck.

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I was raised in a home where the amount of presents were meant to determine the state of happiness. My sisters and I did not set the tone, though. It was my mother who felt that happiness could be measured by each yard of gift wrapping, that atonement was possible with every carefully placed ribbon or thread of silvery tinsel. We grew into the expectation because it was easy to do, and also, the pleasure my mother seemed to wear on her face when we opened our gifts was something we didn’t see much of throughout the rest of the year. It was clear that Christmas meant many things to her, and we wanted to capture the comet-like flash of contentment while it was there, from the Eve into the following day. It wasn’t about Jesus, wasn’t about sleigh bells. It was about the magic of joy and the way the mirage became a reality. Her eggnog was always laced with rum and the carols were usually some bizarre medley of Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers, Boney M and the Carpenters. She would sing and laugh at everything we said, and we wished for it to last forever.

We grew older, we collected friends and boyfriends, and the tradition of excess continued. Anyone attached to us by something other than blood had a new kind of unspoken pressure in their lives: they thought they had to measure up. The thing was that because my parents (my mother) went so overboard in terms of gift-giving, everyone else in our lives believed it was done because we demanded it. My best friend K. could not believe how many gifts I would receive and often laughed with embarrassment when I would run down the list, oblivious to the dizzying pace of my voice. One year, I jokingly said I wanted a Gucci watch because I’d seen it in a magazine and had decided that at sixteen, I was woman enough. No one was as surprised as I was to find it in my stocking on Christmas morning, and I immediately felt as ashamed as I did exhilarated to now own it. As I fiddled with the gold clasp and marvelled at the lightness of the bangle, I saw my dad’s face looking a little confused even though he was smiling. Clearly, he had had little to do with the gift selection.

My friends often apologized to me when I’d open their gifts because they felt they had to explain themselves. I know it’s not a brand name, but I thought you might like it anyway, or, I hope it’s okay, I know how particular you are. The thing is, I wasn’t that particular. I was always more happy to have the friends than I was their gifts, and I was insulted at times that they didn’t see me the way I truly felt I was. The gifts I remember them giving me over the past twenty odd years would likely surprise them because they had nothing to do with decadence: a box of antique books from an estate sale that Kim got for twenty dollars which included Alice In Wonderland and Little Women, a mirror Cathie had made for me by a relative out of old wood which she stained herself after calling a furniture store I’d bought things from and finding out what colour stain I had requested, a picture frame that Kyla covered with pretty paper that reminded her of me. I don’t remember the colour of the wrapping paper or whether or not there were bows. I remember the feeling of being understood, of having received a gift from someone who had put some thought into what made me ’me’ and found the truth.

I learned to be too generous because of the festive overkill of my youth. Instead of a sweater for a friend, I’d buy her a coat with matching scarf. A book wasn’t a book unless it was hardcover and over fifty dollars. I thought that the amount of money and glitter would best illustrate the deep sense of my affection or adoration for the person it was intended for, and it didn’t register that they might be bewildered by the grander gestures. It took me a long time to figure out that it doesn’t have to be about ’stuff’.

Like I said, I was used to Christmas mornings where the furniture would have to be dragged out of the room to accommodate the mountains of shining packages. When R. and I began to date, he worked two jobs and saved up so that he could buy me whatever he thought would please me: a cd player, an expensive camera, porcelain dolls (I’m a collector), clothing etc. Even now I struggle to remember it all because it was overwhelming at the time, and the head did swim. That said, I tried to keep up with it too and went as overboard as he did, spending hundreds of dollars on him at a time, losing track of what I’d already bought him. There were kisses of gratitude, strokes on one another’s cheek, but now that we’re no longer a couple, I can’t begin to remember where all of that ’stuff ’went.

What I do remember, though, was the Christmas with the wooden trunk. He had purchased an unfinished pine trunk, the sort you find in a craft store with rope handles and cracks in the wood. It was not pretty, and I recall it wasn't even wrapped, but when I opened it up, inside were oodles of ’Pep’ bars, my favourite chocolate bar at the time, as well as two movies: ‘Fargo’ (my favourite in those days) and ’Tango and Cash’, a horrid flick with Sylvester Stallone and Kurt Russell. This was significant for two reasons: 1)We’d seen ’Fargo’ with a large group of friends and everyone but the two of us hated it. It became a private joke of ours that we were meant to be together because we understood it when the rest of them didn’t. 2)’Tango and Cash’ was the film we’d seen on our very first date. I was touched that he’d remembered that, and I knew that this gift had come from the heart, that he was trying to connect with me. Also in the trunk were cds from groups I liked that he didn’t, books that he’d asked my friends for advice on, gift certificates to my favourite coffee shops and an automatic car starter for the nights when I’d have to work late and come out into the cold. I remember wanting to cry a little when I saw the contents because all of it was me. Every last thing in that ugly, little trunk had a little bit of R’s consideration stamped on it, a connection to my loves and needs. It was the nicest thing he ever gave me, and I still have the trunk today. I keep my Christmas ornaments in it because I want to remember that morning, even if all is said and done between us. I creak open the lid, I see the red and gold, smell a feather-wisp of peppermint, and I smile a little, until the smile fades. It’s a private little acknowledgement I have between myself and the ghost of relationship past.

I don’t have much time for the exorbitance of a twenty-first century holiday season, partially because of financial woes, but mostly because I know it doesn’t mean anything. I want my child to be ’wowed’ by the sight of a lit tree and a collection of brightly coloured boxes like any parent does, but I know what’s inside won’t mean much to her. I think that spending time together, making ornaments, popping popcorn, drinking hot buttered rum and watching my four hundredth screening of ’It’s A Wonderful Life’ will be more wonderful than obsessing over whether or not I bought enough, did enough, made enough.

I know that good things sometimes come to an end, and that when they do, I don’t want to be scrambling to remember the best parts. I want the memories to flood me with a true sense of warmth, like they do when I crack open a little pine trunk, or when I pull a dusty book from it’s place on the shelf. I want to remember the laughter the rises from my daughter’s belly, or the delight on M’s face when he opens a gift to reveal his favourite hard candies.

I might rope the moon and pull it down if I could, but then where would I put it, and what we do with that big hole in the sky? Would it really make them love me more?

I’d rather they be able to see the love in my eyes and be happy to have it.