The holidays are rough and everyone knows it, except for the marketing geniuses who make commercials and holidays specials. Those folks are way too excited and I can’t. I admit that I don’t watch holiday specials because I also can’t with the music. You have to wonder what’s in Al Roker’s coffee when he’s commentating on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. When I quit drinking I took a dishearteningly grumbly attitude toward live music, especially the kind that might take me away from my bed and book. Which was weird, I mean, who doesn’t like live music. What kind of curmudgeonly person? After awhile I realized that there’s an energy expectation at these events that I just can’t match. If it doesn’t involve dessert or a book store I struggle to muster up that kind of happiness. Ever. No matter if it’s the holidays.
Scrooge was a total dick, however, expecting Christmas to be like any other day will keep you from being too disappointed. After all, someone in the family might be too pissy to do any holiday activities. Others will begrudgingly come along, but scowl so much you wish they just stayed at home. If it snows, it might be that wet stuff that gets muddy and sad. You fall asleep before midnight mass and have to rouse yourself to stumble out in the cold for baby Jesus. Something’s getting burned. Someone else is sick. A third person has too much to drink. Minimal magic.
I’m writing from a place of incredible privilege. I know my Christmas will be virtually drama free, mostly calm, and fine. I will have the day off from work and God willing take a nap and all will be fine. Just fine. I can’t even imagine the horror this time of year brings for families who lost loved ones, don’t have enough money to give even one gift, let alone make any magic, or people who are sick. What an annoying time of year for folks who aren’t Christian, or down with mainstream Christmas. The Mariah Carey song is bad enough for those of us who do participate in holiday activities.
The holiday commercials are the worst. The. WORST. Talk about high expectations. No one on a McCormick seasoning commercial is burning their turkey, and their kids are always willing to help out with cookie baking. No one appears on my Starbucks cup and starts a snowball fight. My Amazon packages don’t sing.
What sucks the most this year is the LL Bean commercial, with all the “videos” of “regular families” celebrating Christmas. There’s a dad who is super happy with his new flannel shirt. Or there’s a couple dancing in the dining room in their new sweaters, looking incredibly delighted and in love. What really hit me in the Christmas expectations was the mom and kids dancing in their matching new buffalo plaid Christmas jammies.
I wish I was the type of mom who could Darth Vader the rest of my family into doing what I wanted, but I’m not. And the force is very strong with my two dudes. No matching jammies for me.
I always fall prey to thinking social media is real, and I’m really just the same with advertising. I am literally an advertiser’s wet dream. I know, I KNOW that commercials are FICTION, but…they do tug on my aspirations. They don’t show the part of the commercial (because there isn’t one…it’s not real life) where mom had to strongarm dad into dancing in front of the Christmas tree…and they only danced for a minute and dad rolled his eyes the whole time. Flannel shirt dad was drinking Al Roker’s special coffee and returned the shirt the next day. Don’t ever buy clothes for Dad. And the kids didn’t want to be wearing the goddamn jammies and were angry about the forced family fun. TV is just about as real as Santa.
Still, the companies know that we’ll visit them to buy gifts regardless of whether they set us up for extreme disappointment during the holiday season. Yeah, I purchased from LL Bean. They have quality stuff. But I refuse to buy their Christmas vision. My slippers work just as well for doing life when I just can’t be bothered with shoes as they do for joyous kitchen dancing. Your catalogues are aspirational enough…please, please don’t assault me with your faux-nostalgic cheer.
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