Respect Authority

There are a lot of things I plan to own when I’m old that would be considered unacceptable at the ripe age of 23: orthopedic shoes, canned prunes, a subscription to AARP. But while growing older justifies more than a few forays into the realm of the uncool, there are some things it’s never acceptable to possess, and nonsensical Christmas paraphernalia is at the top of my list.

It’s not that I have anything against Christmas decor, per se. As we speak, my apartment is decked out with a whopping three items: a one-foot-tall knit Christmas tree that, despite a 100+ year presence in my family, somehow ended up in the hands of the person with by far the least Christmas spirit; a cheap Santa hat draped creatively over a lampshade; and a $5.99 stuffed dog on a sled that barks “Jingle Bells” when you pinch his ear. Which I bought primarily in an effort to frighten the cat.

As you can see, I am nothing if not festive. It was in fact that very holiday spirit that temporarily desensitized me to the abundance of Christmas decor in my mother’s house - that and the beeline I made for the eggnog. But upon closer inspection, of which I have had plenty of time to conduct being trapped in suburbia without friends for three days, I began to notice that my house has at some point in the last few years become a veritable dumping ground for the detritus of every Christmas kiosk in at least a 50 mile radius.

For one, there are at least three decapitated Santa heads, though I’ve chosen to photographically document only that which I have long considered the most creepy and least jolly. It appears as though someone found a miniature Santa, threw him in the guillotine, and mailed the result to my mother as a pint-sized bundle of Christmas joy. Dude doesn’t even look cheerful.

And headless Chris Kringles are only the beginning. There are at least five reindeer made from various materials, six or so figurines of Christmas carolers - including this classy glitter-covered deal - and at my latest estimation, approximately 643 snowmen.

I realize that these sorts of Christmas accessories are par for the course when it comes to semi-unfamiliar gift-giving, so in some ways the accumulation of this sort of grandmotherly nonsense is unavoidable. After all, your second cousin may not know you’re itching for that new Killers CD, but she sure as hell knows you celebrate Christmas: cue engraved ornament No. 38. But willingly displaying each and every snowman figurine is a death blow to whatever may remain of your dignity, and certainly an insult to any former thought you may have given to the actual decoration of your home. My mother, for example, has taken at least one interior design class in her spare time, and over the past four years has filled our house with a smorgasbord of tasteful and high-end furniture, yet when I sit on the Pottery Barn love seat and kick up my heels on our brown leather footstool - all I can see are creepy glitter children and wreaths weaved with bells that wake the entire house up when someone walks in the front door.

Accepting the poor decorating choices that come with age is fine - I fully plan to use my future walker as both a transportation aid and part-time drying rack - but please, keep the floating Santa heads to a minimum.