Whatever Happened to Baby Jesus?

Remember Christmas?

I'm not talking about the little get-together you had with your family last year. I mean the fruition of a month's waiting, the giddiness of waking up on that rare morning that comes along only one time every decade-long year, and the unbearable joy of seeing that lit up tree with a veritable mountain or wrapped packages underneath.

The day has finally come. You tried to be good all year, certain that your deeds were enough to convince Santa to put you on the nice list. You wake up as soon as you're able, run downstairs, your pajamas still on, and see the splendid 12-foot tree lit up in all its glory. And the presents, oh the presents.

Dad packs his pipe and puts on some festive music, something by Mannheim Steamroller or possibly Mahalia Jackson. Mom puts the coffee on, and you scour through the gifts cloaked in paper and draped in foliage, looking for your name, hoping to find it on the biggest package of all. You can't wait. An eternity passes until Mom and Dad get situated, and finally, it's time for presents.

Your turn can't come fast enough, and as soon as your hands touch paper, you tear through it like a snared wolverine. As the Everest of gifts gradually decreases, you find yourself surrounded by all the awesome things you begged for all year. And socks. Your pool of gifts grows and grows. You barely know what to start with.

Finally, they're all open, and all that's left under the tree is a skirt and some stray needles. But that's nothing to fret about. It just means it's time to play with all your new toys. And you dive right in with the one big gift you'd been hoping, praying, and begging for. You spend all day happily playing, checking out what your siblings got, and ignoring the socks. It's the perfect day. Magical. You couldn't be happier.

Christmas night, after dinner, and you're all tuckered out. You don't want to go to bed; you want to keep playing. But all your new toys will be waiting for you tomorrow. Nevertheless, you take the day's favorite to bed, just in case you need it.

Years pass, and you start to notice the magic of the holiday dissipate. The tree is shorter than last year. The gifts aren't as plentiful. The exchanging of presents isn't as big a deal. You're not as excited anymore. You don't look forward to it. One day you notice that you just don't care. You don't feel like dragging yourself to your parents' house. But you do. You get there, exhange Merry Christmases. There's festive music. There's a tree covered in lights. There's food and coffee and Dad might smoke his pipe. You even half-heartedly rummage through to guess what people got you. But somehow, it all just seems so... empty.

You appreciate what people give you, and you hope they like what you give them. You eat the delicious food that's been set out. You spend time with people you love. But something's off. The magic is gone. The hope, the anticipation, the fulfillment, all gone. You go through vacant motions prescribed through years of tradition, but you just don't feel anything, aside, maybe, from the desire to just get away from your family and go home.

At what point did the best day of the year devolve into an annual nuisance?

I wish Christmas would return. Jack, on the other hand, says, "fuck it".

- Nihilistic Gnome Lover