I'm not going anywhere for Christmas.  I haven't spent a Christmas back home in Indiana since 2003, and before that it was at least a decade since I had. 

Yes, I am one of those people.  The ones who don't go home for Christmas.  Who go out and buy a fruitcake, a bottle of Lagavulin, and a box of Camacho Candelas, and spend Christmas soaking in a lukewarm bath in a pharmacologico-alcoholic haze, deleting contacts from their cell phone memory and listening to their Nietzsche audiobooks.

No, actually, I'm no foot soldier in the War on Christmas.  It doesn't much matter to me what you call it, I like this little season of good cheer, however fragile, however fake.  And I especially relish the relative calm of the week from Christmas to New Year.  For me it's a respite from obligations, even though for many it's the opposite. 

So while I don't have a sentimental affection for Christmas, in a personal way, I am sort of sentimental about the idea of it.  There's actually a lot to like about the idea of yuletide, and if I have kids of my own someday—quel horror!—I hope not to traumatize them by making too much or too little of it, as parents invariably do. 

Christmas around my house growing up was intense.  Gift competition among siblings was always fierce.  Like Evolutionary fierce.  It was all about who would live to reproduce.  Whoever our parents had decided was the best bet to pass on those selfish genes would get the best presents.  Simple as that.  We knew the stakes were high.

I liked other things about Christmas, though.  My dad's hand-made ornaments, straight out of Ladies Home Journal. Twinkly lights.  Midnight Mass.  Lounging around in PJs all day.  The last two of these are no longer options, unfortunately, since I break out in hives even stepping foot in the Narthex of a church, and risk third-degree burns by entering the Nave.  And I don't own any PJs, and my housemates have made it very clear (like, it's explicitly written into the lease) that I am not to walk around downstairs in my tighty-whities.

Still I have a lot of memorable memories of Christmas.  I like reflecting back on them as I soak in my lukewarm bath, Also Sprach Zarathustra booming in the background.

One thing that consistently annoyed me about Christmas in my youth that I very much cherish was it was the one morning of the year my older brother, The Golden Bollocks, was up before I was.  All the sudden it was rad to be up at the crack of dawn, cool to be the early bird!  Not the other 364 days a year when I did it and it was for losers, only the one day a year he did. 

Not only did I have the early-riser's innate slow-burning contempt for late-sleepers, who don't seem to care one way or another about who gets the worm, but as far back as I can remember, I found my brother's unquestioning belief in Santa and his pee-your-pants enthusiasm for ripping open his presents Christmas morning frankly embarrassing. 

I remember thinking, "he has got to be the worst representative of childhood in the world."  See, I was very progressive, even as a wee lad.  I had a vision of what Childhood could be.  I wanted to take it to The Next Level.   Like Childhood Plus.  Childhood Platinum.  But in order to do that I needed people to respect children, not treat them like household pets.  As it was, they'd throw us a few chew-toys Christmas morning to amuse themselves.  I wanted more.  50/50 — 60/40 minimum, final offer — with full bathroom rights, a walk-in closet, and a tree-house with a mini-bar stocked twice weekly. 

But I couldn't do it by myself.  We needed to unionize, my brothers and I.  But they were too busy doing back-flips for my folks trying to get access to the teet of parental affection.  There were only two teets, and there were three of us.

I said, "come on guys, let's work together."

They were skeptical of my motives. 

I was like, "That's just how they want you to be!  Can't you see they're playing us against each other!"

"It's true they love us more than you," they replied.

I told them, "Don't be so sentimental.  Forget about affection.  It's attention, not affection you want for your cause."

It was too much for their little minds to grasp. I tried to appeal to the obvious.

"Do the math," I told them.  "We outnumber them."

The problem, I now see, is that there was a Judas, maybe two, in our midst.  They'd bought them off with cheap little trinkets and toys, with Happy Meals and Cheese Doodles and Doctor Pepper.  They couldn't see the big picture anymore.

So, yes, I was forced to play the game.  But did it grudgingly.

When Christmas morn came round, I knew there was no point for me to get up at the crack of dawn.  It was the one day of the year I slept in.  I always knew I would be disappointed by my own hoard of presents, not because my parents weren't careful to get me what I'd asked "Santa" (wink-wink-nudge-nudge, don't tell my brother) for, but because my reaction could never be kid-like enough. 

Christmas provided special challenges, of course.  I stayed awake nights staring at the ceiling thinking, what would a kid ask Santa for?  Think, Mike, think!  And I would write the obligatory "Dear 'Santa'" letter in my best kid-like script, littered with predictable misspellings and those stupid backward kid letters...


I tried—really, I did—to ask "Santa" (I always made quote-unquotes with my fingers when I said "santa," too) for kid-like things, but I just never quite got it right. 

And so Christmas morning would roll around and my brother, Judas, would get a G.I. Joe, a whiffle ball set, a Cincinnati Reds Jersey (#5—Johnny Bench) and an Atari console, and I would get a six-pack of striped bikini briefs, an ascot, a crate of Canada Dry (and a bag of fresh limes), a subscription to Foreign Affairs, and Engelbert Humperdinck's latest album.  (Not a bad haul, but not exactly halfsies, either.)

"Wow!" I'd fake kid-like glee.  "'Santa' sure hit the nail on the head this year, didn't he, mom (wink-wink-nudge-nudge)?"

"Mm?" she would say distractedly, turning back to little Judas. "Put on your baseball Jersey, Lum-lum! Mommy's little All-Star!"

"Ohooh! Can I model my bikini briefs?!" I would squeal.

"You'll catch cold," my mother'd say, tartly.

"Can we play my Englebert Humperdinck album?"  I'd plead, in my best kid-like whine.

"You could go to your room and play it in there!" She would suggest enthusiastically.  "Wouldn't that be fun?  With your door closed?"

"You could listen to it all day, if you wanted!" My old man would chime in. "flitting around in your new bikini briefs and ascot in front of your mirror!  Best Christmas ever!"

And so it was.  Another Christmas alone on the catwalk with the ghost of Englebert Humperdinck.

Eventually, they would just leave my presents outside my bedroom door, with a little note attached: "'Santa' knows how you like your 'Mike-Time.' Enjoy the show!"

Families always find a way.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I have a bottle of scotch and a luke-warm bath to get to.

Merry Christmas!