Merry Christmas!

It’s November 8, and according to all the signs around me, this is an appropriate greeting. This morning’s paper is full of ads for toys and holiday decorations and the recycled holiday TV commercials are in full swing. Yesterday at the grocery store I was met—or perhaps accosted is a better word—with a large Christmas tree surrounded by poinsettias; wreaths and boughs hung in every department. A large display of holiday wrapping paper and gift boxes was set up at the entrance. Fearing that I might commit suicide right there at the deli counter,  I listened for Christmas Muzak. Thankfully, not yet. Although I know a local radio station started playing nonstop holiday music on November 1. All this stuff is having the opposite of the intended effect on me. I’m feeling a bit Scrooge-like. Bah Humbug.

Don’t get me wrong…I really do love the holidays. I look forward with great anticipation to the family gatherings, enjoy all the baking I only seem to do this time of year, find great joy in a beautifully-wrapped gift (indeed, I have become quite famous in some circles for my wrapping abilities), and who doesn’t like giving and getting presents?

But seeing the Christmas stuff mingling with Halloween costumes is a little tough to take. At this rate, I’ll be in serious burnout mode by December 1. I certainly understand that in this shaky economy retail businesses are desperate to inspire a long shopping season. But…geez. Two months? Christmas should not last two months.

I think Christmas should last two weeks. OK, maybe three weeks. Actually, the three-week Christmas rule has always worked well for me. Both of my boys’ birthdays are between now and Christmas, and since I can only think about one thing at a time, I usually begin my Christmas season on December 6 (the day after Baby Bird’s birthday).

Twenty days. That’s all the Christmas I need.