It’s that time of year again. And, no, I don’t mean for shopping
or putting up lights up or breaking out the good snow boots.
Nooooooo. I mean it’s time for an annual ritual so stressful and
confusing that chances are, afterwards, you will be found tucked
under the ottoman humming and braiding your hair. I’m talking about
the annual Picking-of-the-Tree ritual.
It’s that time of year again. And, no, I don’t mean for shopping or putting up lights up or breaking out the good snow boots. Nooooooo. I mean it’s time for an annual ritual so stressful and confusing that chances are, afterwards, you will be found tucked under the ottoman humming and braiding your hair. I’m talking about the annual Picking-of-the-Tree ritual.
Now, those of you who’ve done this without kids are probably thinking, “What’s so bad about that? You just go to the lot, pick one, and viola!
Ha! Ha! I say.
Once you have kids, The-Picking-of-the-Tree is one of the most mind-boggling experiences paralleled only to Madonna videos and counting presidential votes in Florida.
Let me explain.
Each year, not being organized or outdoorsy types, we usually wait until the last possible minute then choose our tree from the middle of a discount store parking lot. (Which, everyone knows, is just like going to the forest except for all of the shopping carts and halogen lights.)
Oh sure, everything always starts out fine. We eagerly enter the lot filled with holiday spirit and high hopes. Heck, we may even make it past a tree or two in this very same mood. But, inevitably, someone will point and say something upsetting like, “Hey, what about this one?” And then a major fight breaks out.
I’m not sure why this always surprises me. Because, let’s face it, there is something about The-Picking-of-the-Tree that causes even the most laid back person to suddenly have a wildly passionate opinion.
Take, for instance, my 10-year-old daughter. Mind you, she is the type of person who doesn’t even know that trees exist at any other time of the year. But, come December, she must find one that’s exactly six feet tall, at least 24 inches in diameter, with bluish-green needles, and preferably in the Pinus Strobus family.
Then there’s my 7-year-old son, who claims he doesn’t care what kind of tree we get, as long as it doesn’t look too tall, too short, too bushy, too twiggy, too green, too flocked or too much like, well, a tree.
But don’t feel sorry for me. Save it for my friend Julie. After spending three hours meticulously studying every tree (including the ones planted between the cars in the parking lot), breaking up six fist fights, and getting two dozen splinters in her hands, her kids suddenly decided that the only true, ecologically correct thing to do would be to go to the local nursery and buy a live tree.
Maybe I should be more like my friend Barb. At her house when she suggests getting a tree, her husband sighs then goes into the garage and pulls down a cardboard box. Then the whole family spends a nice, non-stressful evening drinking hot apple cider and unfolding branches.
But where, I ask you, is the adventure in that?
Face it, despite the cold and all of the yelling, there’s something special about picking out a Christmas tree together. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s from the anticipation. Or perhaps it’s from being outside in the fresh air.
Or maybe it’s the effect of the fumes from all of the cans of flocking.
Whatever the reason, one thing’s for certain: Once the tree is decorated, no one cares what kind it is anymore or even remembers who, exactly, chose it. In fact, by the time New Year’s Eve rolls around, people go out of their way to avoid it altogether.
Hey, nobody ever said that The-Picking-of-the-Tree makes any sense.
Debbie Farmer’s column appears every Monday.
