I’ve been so sick that maintaining an upright position for more than half an hour has become a physical impossibility. This means my tree has gone undecorated, making me “bitter” and “angry” and “lacking in Christmas spirit”.
I like Christmas trees. I even enjoy the annoyance of them; they’re big, imposing, in the way, slightly inconvenient, and it’s comforting. This thing in my living room, however, taking up valuable floorspace, is not a Christmas tree. Christmas trees have lights and decorations. This is a six and a half foot tall cut plant in my living room, making me angry.
You’d think I’d just have Rob put the lights on and decorate it for me, but he’s mostly clueless. This is only his 3rd Christmas tree. And I’m picky. The lights have to be layered, so that the tree appears to be lit from within, and so that the edges of the branches are lit, too. It’s an art. It’s a science. He can’t do it; it is I, and only I, who has the ability to string white lights to perfection. And I can’t. And it sucks.