Christmas Years

Christmas is the happy equivalent of Halloween. Children would gather on the streets with make-shift drums and tambourines, skipping around the neighborhood, singing as they go. The houses that you thought looked most boring, like the one the old widow lives in down the block? They're suddenly given new life and shine; sparkling lights colour the pavement in shades of green, yellow and red, your work-obsessed dad suddenly turns family-oriented, and you can't make a damn phone call to greet your better half a merry Christmas.

Personally, Christmas has always been an occasion I look forward to. Unwrapping gifts, not having a limit on how much soft drink I chug, and a whole bunch of relatives giving their commitments a pause to share dinner--puts together an unexplainable feeling of innocent happiness. It's incomparable. I'm not looking forward to getting drunk, getting high grades, exchanging phone numbers, or being somewhere my parents would never allow me into. Like I'm happy just because. Maybe it's what they call an "inner child," or the "Christmas spirit," acting up.

But as I moved through my final years of being a teenager, this "child" or "spirit," grew more and more silent. I don't feel it's even inside anymore today. The lights that I fancied so much to view 10-ish years ago, seem to glow a lot less. Noche buena now feels more like a regular diner, just with more ham. Going over to my relatives feels more like a chore than a happening. The zest I get after unwrapping a present seems to have grown 10-ish times shorter than way back--way back, I'd get stars in my eyes for weeks after getting something new. Now, it's just an "Oh. A school shirt." or an "I can't use this on a rainy day."

I've had an awesome year. So trying to explain the situation based on unsavory things that happened in the months (or days) behind would sound more like making up an excuse than providing a reason. Money is also not an issue. The only thing I can see different about me today is my age. So maybe, loosing interest in Christmas IS part of aging. Or of maturity or of thinking like a grown-up. It can't be nothing--it's like Christmas got well up in years and a part of me is on its twilight. This post coming in late is proof enough.

I just hope my enthusiasm doesn't end up, well, ending. Because that would probably mean I'm grown up and I'm just not there yet.