Scroooge.

I’ve become a huge Scroogey McScrooge.

An enormous Grinchy van Grinch.

Somehow, somewhere along the happy trail of life, I’m finding myself hating Christmas. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean the Christmas for little kids whose sparkly wonderment at the season is crystalline and pure and amazing to watch.

I mean the Christmas for most of the rest of us. Those of us that long ago adapted a different lifestyle, one devoid of a child’s sparkly wonderment.

You know, like,  Miss Carol and me.

Miss Carol and me decided a long while back to embark on a life of raucous self-indulgence. And we’ve done it. And I’m good with it. I embrace and love our little world and our self indulgences daily.

But then Christmas bustles and jostles into town with his Ho-Ho-Ho good cheer and my happy little self-indulgent world is rocked back on it’s haunches. I realize that there are other people in the world, folks with little chillen whose happy little faces are pressed up against the windows of homes waiting, their happy little hearts fairly panting.

And that’s when I get all Scroogy von Scrooge. And that’s normally just about the time that Miss Carol wants to go get a Christmas tree and decorate the house and light it up like an Xmas spaceship.

And we do it. And when it’s done, Miss Carol and me stand outside in the street looking at what it is we’ve wrought and Miss Carols clapping her hands all pitty-pat and telling me how beayooooootiful it is.

And I look up at it and the Grinchy McGrinchster in me says, just more shit I gotta take down in 27 days.