I can’t decide if it is more sad as a single 46-year-old man to put up a Christmas tree for the holidays or more sad not to. It helps me to think of it like an Onion headline: “Sad man erects Christmas tree and places present for self underneath” or “Single man who ‘needed time to work on self’ now nearing retirement.”
My neighbors across the street do a huge Christmas display every year, complete with a bright red 1950s style pickup truck parked in the yard with a tree in the bed and a grinch on the hood. There’s a glowing baby Jesus in a manger with a few hay bales and a bunch of other glowing people checking out the baby, plus maybe a sheep. There’s a 4 foot tall illuminated Santa and likewise a snowman and a Nutcracker soldier and another 4 foot tall Santa.
The whole house and every tree and railing and gutter are covered in colorful lights and the glare is so powerful it seeps through my home’s window blinds as though a rainbow is knocking on the door every evening. I don’t mind it. But the contrast it sets up feels like an accusation. Every night when I walk back from the gym their house is lit up like a veritable landing strip for the reindeer at the North Pole. And then there is my house, wrapped snugly in darkness, not even a twinkle visible within.
The thing is, I like Christmas. I’m not a Scrooge or a Grinch. I like the colorful decorations, the excessive lighting, the willingness to pay the skyrocketing electricity bills all to bring a little cheer. I like seeing family and friends, and I like giving and getting gifts. I like eating too much and feeling just fine about it. It always makes my mom happy when I eat too much.
Just once while living alone have I decorated, and that was because I was in a relationship and it seemed like a fun thing to do—to imagine a little what a life together would look like. It was nothing excessive. A few presents under the tree. A string of lights. Some stray ornaments. And she was one of those rare people who lights up a room as much as they do your life. A kind of magnet person everyone wants to gather around. A woman who could have been the reason that I was finally invited to parties and dinner gatherings. But it ended, and the tree soon dried out and died, too. In the early spring I set it on fire. Nothing burns as bright with the spirit of Christmas as a desiccated Douglas fir.
And so Christmas for me is always a reminder that society has heavily suggested for generations that life is supposed to go like this: You get married and have kids and start your own Christmas (or other holiday) traditions and pass your love of Christmas on to your children and so on and so on and so on. You make new people to give presents to and to get presents from (but mostly to give presents to). But that doesn’t happen for everyone.
Being single more often than not over many years has certainly allowed me time to work on myself, but like any project, after a while you burn out or get bored with it. Working on myself for many years now, one might think I would be perfect. I should be a heart surgeon with six-pack-abs working on his 100th marathon and moonlighting as a master chef at a 3-star Michelin restaurant.
I am not any of these things. Running is one of my least favorite activities, unless I’m running to Arby’s for a deal on a Big Beef n’ Cheddar. I do not have abs: I have an ab.
But we all come from different places. Different experiences. Mine allow me to wake up some days and recall where I was 20 years ago, and sometimes I can’t believe I’m alive at all. But here I am. I own a house now, and a camper. A camper! That means I’m thriving, big time.
But more than that, I’ve come to like myself over the years, and that hasn’t always been the case. I can now honestly say that most of the time, I enjoy my company. I amuse me. And I never quite know what I’ll get into next; still, I don’t expect it will be decorating for Christmas. I do like that little glowing sheep though.
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