Open scene. I’m cutting the plastic netting from a newly christened Christmas tree with a cheese knife. I’m using a short, stubby cheese knife because I want to reduce the likelihood of my getting stabbed, or stabbing my sister. If I stabbed my sister, even two weeks in advance, it would probably ruin Christmas.
But that’s besides the point. The point is, the older I get, the less emotional weight the holidays carry. As a kid, even in a household of heretics, there was the good secular magic of getting reverse-robbed by Santa. I lived to hang ornaments on the tree. It wasn’t even just the traditions themselves that were exciting, but the feeling of them. In the days leading up to winter break, even the most mundane things were somehow better. I can’t pinpoint the exact year my holiday spirit died, but somewhere between ten and sixteen, my excitement turned to apathy. And I have an idea of why:
The holidays are more often than not a time of well-intentioned mediocrity. Someone tries an ambitious, festive recipe that everyone else politely avoids. You buy someone a piece of cheap kitsch and open their expensive gift with yawning dread. If you’re like me, the accumulated mounds of packaging make you think not of sleigh bells and joy but rather strangled wildlife. The inevitable conclusion: humanity is awful, especially Black Friday shoppers. Not only is humanity awful, but by eating Christmas cookies, you are somehow complicit.
Here’s another thing. When you’re a kid, you just receive presents. This cannot prepare you for the stress of buying presents. Of course, you have to buy everyone something. If you’ve been friends with someone for a long time, chances are you’ve used up every good gift idea already. What’s left? Food? Sweaters? Artisinally mass-produced HomeGoods knick-knacks? Most of the stuff given and received every year ends up collecting dust anyways. During the holidays, hell is not only other people, but also their mysterious desires.
And what about your acquaintances? If Acquaintance A gets something, then of course you have to get Friend of a Friend B something too. If you don’t vomit your life savings on even the most distant periphery of your social circle, you’re the bad guy.
The person who has it the worst, I think, is the friend with a really niche interest. There always is one: the Harry Potter friend, the fuzzy sock friend. Let us have a moment of silence for all of the closets in the world dedicated to Niche Interest Friend’s thematically appropriate garbage. It’s what they get every year. At every Christmas. And every birthday.
Now this is not to say that a thoughtful gift couldn’t be positive. It’s just, the only consistent product of Adult Christmas is the pathological accumulation of obscure kitchen implements.
How about I illustrate my point? The aforementioned cheese knife, a Christmas gift, is a complete carbuncle, a stain on the world of cutlery. It’s an object that says: ‘here, I don’t know what to do with my money.’ Or: ‘here, I’m trying to look cultured at a dinner party.’ Or: ‘here, I don’t actually know the distant relation I’m buying this for, but if I spend a little too much on something bland I will offend no one and still convey my deep filial love.’ Sorry, distant relative, Gen Z snowflake here. I am offended by useless gifts. I’m also upset people feel that if they don’t give gifts, they have failed their loved ones.
Adult Christmas should be more than a one night stand with capitalism. As a society, it’s time we leave behind the excess consumption the holidays have come to represent. We can relieve the stress associated with obligatory gift giving. We can also cut down the waste we produce, through shipping, packaging, and wrapping gifts. Statistically, the holidays make people feel isolated. Reach out. Just being present is the best gift of all.