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the inevitable complaint
Dec. 25th, 2004 10:39 pmI think it was around 10:30 in the morning that I stuck my head out of the covers and tried to make sense of Christmas Day... I went to bed around 4 but the cold made me wake up by 7:30. I made myself think about the idea that in many or most of the homes around me, people were waking up, opening presents, having a little something to eat sociably and listening to holiday music, that they'd anticipated this, were looking forward to it. I thought about the concept that I had done something like this back in ancient times. But I wasn't getting it. I went back to reading the book I'd already read twice before, and a few hours later I was finally tired enough to sleep.
Yesterday I got a card from my mother with a check in it; as usual I'm afraid to spend it, because I can never be sure if it's a genuine gift, or a passive-aggressive attempt to show what an ungrateful child I am. And I can never think of these things as free money... if I get an unexpected windfall, it's got to go into the overall budget, and maybe I need it for the rent more than I do for some extravagance. What if it turns out later I needed that money for something important?
I think Christmas was more fun when I could be filled with avarice without any guilt. You know, foaming at the mouth to see what it was that Santa brung me. Even after I got old enough that I thought to get presents for my family (and was monetarily capable of doing so), it wasn't that bad; but you get to this point where you start thinking "Is this a fitting gift for them?" "Is it expensive enough?" "I should get at least three things each," etc. and that pretty much fucks up the whole holiday. Before I know it, it's like I'm cutting some kind of drug deal with my parents. Heaven help me if I'm not thrilled with what I get... I should be old enough by now that I can gracefully pretend to like something I have no interest in.
And then I wonder if it's something wrong with me. You know, like if you really were capable of loving another human being, you could just give gifts to people out of love and you wouldn't even be thinking about the political significance of your gift, so blinded would you be by your love. But when you're just a parasite like I am, you can't help but worry about when you'll finally be found out.
About a year or two back, my mother sent me a portable tape player. I had no interest in it. I haven't opened it... maybe I can resell it somewhere. What am I supposed to say to her? "I don't want this"? After she went to the trouble of getting it and sent it with some special tapes and some sort of weird themed assortment of junk? Now I'm trained enough to lie, and now suddenly it's okay to be honest. Or is it? I just don't know for sure. I can never be sure if she's really trying to give me something, or if she's just setting me up for some kind of guilt trip, and I don't think she knows, either.
Have I ever mentioned the shoes? I would hardly ever ask for anything specific, but the year I graduated, I asked my mother if she'd get me a good pair of shoes, to wear to interviews. Nothing amazing, a pair of loafers would have been sufficient, just something that wasn't a pair of sneakers, you know? So Christmas rolls around and I open this shoebox-sized box, and my mom's watching me in anticipation as I open this thing and I find these white golf shoe-looking things with fringes along the top and knobbly soles. I look at her, totally bewildered, and she tells me she couldn't afford a good pair of shoes, but she got me these! And I'm annoyed, not just because they aren't what I asked for, but because I have no use at all for them but I'll be expected to keep them anyway, and because the whole thing about being ready for the real world is her thing, and she gets me these clown shoes. So of course the screaming begins, on Christmas morning, which frankly was not an unusual thing at my house, and I end up keeping them and never wearing them and buy my own shoes later on.
So maybe it's better this way, sitting by myself in a one-bedroom apartment pretending it's just another day. I can't help but imagine my mother at her place, alone, and wondering what kind of dementia is whirling around inside her head as she imagines these Christmases past, you know, that they were happy and placid family times. Is she looking forward to the day when I'll come home and spend the holiday with her again, and does she think it'll all be just like it was when I was little?
When I first got up today, the street was filled with fog, so that you couldn't even seen past the intersection. for a second I hoped I was in some other world.
Yesterday I got a card from my mother with a check in it; as usual I'm afraid to spend it, because I can never be sure if it's a genuine gift, or a passive-aggressive attempt to show what an ungrateful child I am. And I can never think of these things as free money... if I get an unexpected windfall, it's got to go into the overall budget, and maybe I need it for the rent more than I do for some extravagance. What if it turns out later I needed that money for something important?
I think Christmas was more fun when I could be filled with avarice without any guilt. You know, foaming at the mouth to see what it was that Santa brung me. Even after I got old enough that I thought to get presents for my family (and was monetarily capable of doing so), it wasn't that bad; but you get to this point where you start thinking "Is this a fitting gift for them?" "Is it expensive enough?" "I should get at least three things each," etc. and that pretty much fucks up the whole holiday. Before I know it, it's like I'm cutting some kind of drug deal with my parents. Heaven help me if I'm not thrilled with what I get... I should be old enough by now that I can gracefully pretend to like something I have no interest in.
And then I wonder if it's something wrong with me. You know, like if you really were capable of loving another human being, you could just give gifts to people out of love and you wouldn't even be thinking about the political significance of your gift, so blinded would you be by your love. But when you're just a parasite like I am, you can't help but worry about when you'll finally be found out.
About a year or two back, my mother sent me a portable tape player. I had no interest in it. I haven't opened it... maybe I can resell it somewhere. What am I supposed to say to her? "I don't want this"? After she went to the trouble of getting it and sent it with some special tapes and some sort of weird themed assortment of junk? Now I'm trained enough to lie, and now suddenly it's okay to be honest. Or is it? I just don't know for sure. I can never be sure if she's really trying to give me something, or if she's just setting me up for some kind of guilt trip, and I don't think she knows, either.
Have I ever mentioned the shoes? I would hardly ever ask for anything specific, but the year I graduated, I asked my mother if she'd get me a good pair of shoes, to wear to interviews. Nothing amazing, a pair of loafers would have been sufficient, just something that wasn't a pair of sneakers, you know? So Christmas rolls around and I open this shoebox-sized box, and my mom's watching me in anticipation as I open this thing and I find these white golf shoe-looking things with fringes along the top and knobbly soles. I look at her, totally bewildered, and she tells me she couldn't afford a good pair of shoes, but she got me these! And I'm annoyed, not just because they aren't what I asked for, but because I have no use at all for them but I'll be expected to keep them anyway, and because the whole thing about being ready for the real world is her thing, and she gets me these clown shoes. So of course the screaming begins, on Christmas morning, which frankly was not an unusual thing at my house, and I end up keeping them and never wearing them and buy my own shoes later on.
So maybe it's better this way, sitting by myself in a one-bedroom apartment pretending it's just another day. I can't help but imagine my mother at her place, alone, and wondering what kind of dementia is whirling around inside her head as she imagines these Christmases past, you know, that they were happy and placid family times. Is she looking forward to the day when I'll come home and spend the holiday with her again, and does she think it'll all be just like it was when I was little?
When I first got up today, the street was filled with fog, so that you couldn't even seen past the intersection. for a second I hoped I was in some other world.
