Audrey Hepburn, a.k.a. “Holly Golightly,” defined classic style, simplified elegance and…The Mean Reds.
In the movie, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Holly tells her friend, Fred that having the blues is a result of getting fat or watching it rain for days on end. You’re just sad. “But the mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid and you don’t know what you’re afraid of.”
I have a case of The Mean Reds. And I’m taking it out on Christmas.
While I think I know what’s wrong, I’ll pound out about 500 words in this blog to see if I’m correct (Have you stopped reading yet?). It began a few days before Thanksgiving when I literally got mad that bright orange pumpkins were displayed next to bright green trees. It seems silly to get so wrapped up — no pun intended — in the rush of the holiday season. But, I can’t ignore how I feel. I want to yell at someone, anyone: Stop speeding up my life! Stop making me fast-forward through special occasions! Stop forcing me to ignore the present and focus on the future!
This was one of the first years since my childhood that our Christmas tree didn’t go up on the Saturday following Thanksgiving. It’s as if I were hosting a little, private protest in my own home.
ABSOLUTELY NO CHRISTMAS TREES, WREATHS OR CHARACTERS UNTIL DECEMBER 1st.
Or until December 4th, as it turned out.
I decorated the Christmas trees because of my girls. Just because I’m in a mood doesn’t mean that I should take away from their happiness. I could tell Ava and Maryn were curious as to why our house was dark when we pulled into the driveway. Our neighbors’ homes are outfitted with sparkling white lights and inflatable reindeer. Why not ours? What’s our problem?
“I’m just not into it this year,” I told a friend. “I can’t put my finger on it, but I haven’t felt this ‘blah’ in a long, long time.”
She isn’t feeling festive this year, either. Another friend agreed. “Nope. Not in the spirit,” she replied. “It doesn’t feel like Christmas.”
What does Christmas feel like? This is one of the things that bothers me. I’m starting to lose that child-like spark of uncontrolled happiness that comes with the thought of (what should be) the most wonderful time of the year. My mother lost it. My father lost it. The parents portrayed in The Polar Express lost it. Christmas has become another event to organize and plan. To host. To guarantee.
Now I love to shop, so buying presents for others is always a lot of fun. I enjoy searching for that special something that will bring shock and awe into Christmas morning. I love waking up and remembering the trees are surrounded by packages that are just waiting to be ripped open; paper and bows tossed over each other’s head. I do love that.
But it feels like we just did that. Didn’t I just carry the trees back to the basement? Didn’t I just buy gift tags and tissue paper? Didn’t I just throw out the last of the candy canes? Didn’t I just pay off that credit card?
And here we go again. It’s back. I’m traveling at the speed of life, and the year has gone by so quickly that I can’t really tell you what happened. All of us have gotten so busy that time is truly flying, and I don’t know how to slow it down. I’m right in the middle of the chaos, yet it feels like I’m missing everything. Simply put, I’m too involved.
So that’s it. I’m too “into” everything to experience anything. I never saw my children talk to Santa because I was too busy cutting cinnamon rolls for the buffet breakfast. I didn’t go trick-or-treating with my girls because I was at home giving out candy to everyone else’s kid. I didn’t sit on the couch with my girls during the Macy’s parade, because I was digging giblets out of a turkey’s . . . cavity.
That’s it. I’m afraid that I’m simply too involved. I’m missing out because I’m giving back. And, yes, we’re supposed to do these things, but like usual, I’ve overdone it. I have to make some changes, because it’s becoming apparent that I’m so preoccupied working on things — all kinds of things — that I don’t have much left for my own family. And that’s not acceptable.
Therefore, I’ve decided 2012 is the year that I give myself the gift of permission to be selfish. I’ve got to trim some stuff out of my life (and off my waistline), and I’ve got to cut the words, “Sure I’ll help” from my vocabulary. I need to let someone else do it for a change.
When our heroine, Holly suffers a case of The Mean Reds, she jumps into a cab and goes to Tiffany’s. “Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there.”
Thank goodness I can visit the website. A little retail therapy is just what The Doc ordered. As long as I go lightly.