Those of my readers knowledgeable in advanced particle physics might be aware I have not written about taking down my tiny Christmas tree yet.
Of course, so might most of my other readers. I’m just saying.
In fact, I have not written on the subject of taking down my Christmas tree because the subject of taking down my Christmas tree does not as yet properly exist.
That’s to say, the tree is still up and fully decorated. Not only that, but it is decorated in the decadent French manner, with real bulbs and lights, and not in the hard-nosed American manner — with maxed-out credit cards, IOUs, and forged ballots for George Bush. In short, the tree is too pretty to take down.
Don tried to take it down the other day. He was on his way to the recycling center with his own tree and sensibly offered to pick up mine too. But I threw myself bodily in front of my tree, dramatically threw out my arms, and declared in an impassioned voice that it was going nowhere except by order of the President of France.
Later that day, after Don picked me up from the hospital he’d kindly taken me to for observation following my outburst, we discussed the matter and speculated it would harm nothing to leave the tree up a couple more weeks. Consequently, I have been enjoying the almost candle light warmth of its lights in the early mornings before dawn when I am awake and writing blog posts.
I am quite sure I will need to take the tree down soon. Cut trees cannot last forever. I wonder, though, whether the process of taking it down would be less painful if it were to involve heavy and forgetful drinking — the sort of drinking Becky says Don is apt to indulge himself in after one of my visits.