We finally got our Christmas tree up but, as I write this, we are recouping with cups of hot cider and a box of Band-Aids. We’ve also started to speak to each other again, although we’re using very short sentences.
It started when we got the Christmas tree out of storage. I know that sounds simple enough, but I could probably sell tickets to the event because it always resembles one of those wrestling matches in the old movies, where the smoky crowd boos and screams, "Pound him! Twist ‘im into a pretzel!"
I’m convinced men and Christmas trees have a unique, if not complex, natural relationship that goes way back to historic woodsmen and their axes. Nature has a long memory you know, but that wouldn’t explain why a fake tree would give my husband so much trouble. Perhaps it contains just enough wood product to recall an ancient animosity, and that’s what makes it want to take my husband to the mat every year.

Recent Comments