Take down your blasted Christmas lights or I'll kick you in the head with my cleats on.
Here it is, Christmas day, and I'm already wondering whether that house on 8th and Iowa is going to be displaying Christmas lights ALL year around again this year. I know it's ridiculous to be thinking this now. There's a good week before it even begins to be time to take down the decorations. I guess what I'm hoping is that maybe, just maybe, someone who commits the sin of post-holiday lighting will read this and see the error of his ways. If I can save just one neighbor the embarrassment of having to give directions that end with, "...and we're right next to the house with the 4-foot lighted Santa on the front lawn. Yes, I know it's May," I'll have done my part.
Why is lighting that stays too long at the party so abhorrent to me? Well, I could say I had a father who never acknowledged me or a mother who was cold and unfeeling, but that's not true. It might have something to do with the fact that, while I consider myself creative and open-minded, I'm pretty much a left-brained thinker. Possibly, the fact that I never had a brother or a convertible or a really stiff drink impacted me negatively when it comes to leniency in lighting longevity. Maybe it's a mark of my astrological sign. I'm a Taurus. Does that make a difference?
In any event, I think some type of squadron should be dispatched - right around the end of January - to rid the world of decorations left up past their implied expiration date. Now, to be fair, I did say "implied," so if there's someone out there who really, truly believes that Christmas should last until February or March, then I challenge that person to step forward, plastic lawn Santa in tow, and give me a reason that changes my mind.
Until such time as this information is processed, I will reinstate my plea: Don't kill my soul with chasing lights left up until Spring. Don't make me cry with roof-tracing icicles that still glitter in the night, long after their natural counterparts have melted. Please don't drive me insane with flashing and blinking and all manner of Christmas cheer when I'm trying to get to the post office by midnight with my tax return. Santa has to go home now. Mrs. Claus misses him.
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written works © April Palleria, 2002