But I’ll let you in on a little secret (and if you have bought that book, you already know this): I don’t hate everything about Christmas. Just most things.
For example, the weirdest thing happened in November. Jason and I were watching Survivor (shut up, it is too still relevant), and a trailer for The Grinch came on. Now, maybe it was the pain medication talking, or my love for Benedict Cumberbatch, but I heard myself saying, “I wouldn’t mind seeing that.” This was immediately followed by a panicked thought: Oh, crap—did I say that out loud?
It was too late. I had said it out loud, and Jason was off and running. “But I can’t sit in a movie theater right now!” I protested. (I’d reached the point where the only way I was comfortable was standing perfectly straight or lying perfectly flat. Jason wasn’t hearing it. That selfish bum found a theater with fancy reclining seats, and bought us two tickets to a late screening, because I don’t like children much, either. I was out of excuses (and again, on pretty great medication) so I agreed to go.
And I loved it.
There: I’ve admitted it. I loved the new Grinch movie. The Grinch himself was pretty cute, he was nicer to his dog, and I laughed. A lot.
“Don’t get too excited,” I warned Jason, who was as gleeful as the hapless mutt in the movie. “I’m sure this is a passing phase.
Except a week later, I saw a Christmas T-shirt online (see picture) and demanded Jason buy it for me. (He did.) I mean, it was a holiday shirt. And I wanted it. Weird, right?
What’s going on? Maybe it’s a Christmas miracle after all.
But it’s probably the pain meds.