I’m already tired of Christmas before it’s even through,
and there are three more gatherings that I still have to do.
I look into the mirror and do not recognize
that woman that looks back at me in my face’s guise.
Should we discuss those brand new lines etched across my face?
How did they choose their birth date? How did they choose their place?
Perhaps they represent my angst over this Christmas season
that somehow soared way out of hand—nearly beyond reason.
Next year I won’t put up a tree. Stow every Xmas light
up in my spare room closet, safely out of sight.
I won’t say Merry Christmas to everyone I meet.
I’ll fly down to Bermuda and complain about the heat.
I’ll stay in a four-star hotel and won’t regret the tab.
I’ll forget my seafood allergies and dine on shrimp and crab.
Or perhaps I’ll go to Paris and scale the Eiffel Tower,
then sit in a sidewalk restaurant, my expression bored and dour.
My Christmas will be different. Perhaps I’ll dine on horse,
swearing when I’m finished that I’ll have no remorse.
Wherever I might choose to go, whatever choice I make,
I will not trim a tree, no Yuletide spirit will I fake.
I won’t bake star-shaped cookies dozen after dozen
or debate on what to buy for any second cousin.
I’ll make no trips to Walmart, braving holiday masses.
I’ll simply get my Yuletide cheer from bottles and from glasses.
Sangria for my breakfast. Tequila served with lunch.
Mid-afternoon martinis drunk with the cocktail bunch.
No over-saturation with holiday excesses.
No presents piled under the tree and wrapping paper messes.
If I have a hangover, it will be gin or port.
No light strings to untangle. No ornaments to sort.
Then, after all is said and done, the truth will be, I fear,
that my Christmas spirit will re-emerge next year.
For, New Year’s resolutions, as firm as they may be,
seldom last throughout the year. Somehow they seem to flee.
And so it is with Christmas. Much as we try to beat it,
It seems that every year we are destined to repeat it.