The holidays are over. The one we celebrate in my house, Christmas, has come and gone, as have the New Year’s preparations, celebrations, and immediate aftermath. It’s now 2023 and it looks like a long, steady uphill climb. There is no particular reason I should feel this way. I am relatively healthy, as is my spouse. We live comfortable lives and really want for nothing. You would think after the craziness of the pandemic and the last couple years, I would be dancing with joy at seeing them recede in the distance.

So what’s the deal? Why am I girding myself for a long slog? Damned if I know. I’m aware of the fact that many people deal with depression during the holiday season. I’m sure that’s part of what I am experiencing. Depression can hang on like a barnacle. I remember one former coworker who said something along the lines of, “Look around you. There should be a Prozac truck backing up to the loading dock.” A bit of an exaggeration, but not too far off the mark. It was long ago and a very weird time…

So why the anxiety? I honestly don’t think I’ve been sucked into the holiday advertising wormhole that leads us to believe everyone is getting a shiny new vehicle in their driveway adorned with a giant bow, so I should have one, too, and if I don’t, I am in some way a failure, or at the very least, lagging behind the cool kids. I’m not that shallow. I think. Nor is my wife, or she would be lamenting the fact she did not receive a diamond encrusted snowflake pendant from me as a symbol of my undying love to her. Nope. We’re on more solid footing than that.

Despite living in a culture that celebrates the importance of stuff, or rather, the importance of buying stuff, I don’t think this feeling is connected to material things. I think it is rather that I believe I am expected to be feeling a certain way and because I’m not, I’m down. Please don’t think I feel I’ve stumbled upon some secret formula to explain unhappiness. I know many people are in the same boat as me. And who knows, maybe those commercials featuring some great-looking guy returning home to a beautiful holiday celebration with loved ones, replete with turkey, smiling children running around without being annoying, sparkling drinks, and gently falling snow outside, into which our guy steps and pulls out the latest, coolest, must-have phone to call another loved one, really do make an impression on me. God, I hope not, but those advertisers are sneaky bastards.

No, I think it falls closer to home. I find myself thinking of Christmases years ago, when I was still living at home. With the benefit of hindsight, they seem to be almost magical. My grandmother, whom I adored and missed terribly when my family relocated, was present. There was always snow, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Except for one Christmas Eve blizzard that was crazy. But I choose to file that memory under the category of how back when I was a kid there was always more snow, it was always colder, and we played outside in squalls for hours without the wussy lifeline of a cell phone to stay connected with parents. We were free-range kids. If we did not emerge from the storm and return home in four or five hours for dinner, maybe then there might be cause for some concern. Maybe. More likely Mom might be ticked off that we kept the meal on hold. You know the type of memory, the walking uphill both ways to school type.

Those family celebrations were nice. The red lights on the tree shone just so. The gifts were always right on target. Looking back, those memories are almost preserved in the soft halo of light thrown from the tree. Unless I think harder.

Yeah, those memories look magical and everything is great. But I also remember, at that time, thinking how those current Christmases couldn’t really stack up to the ones I remember as a little kid. The excitement. The anticipation. The adrenaline rush. And the worry. (Jeez, was I ever happy?)

I remember, really remember, freaking about how Santa was never going to visit our house because we didn’t have a fireplace. Every TV show, Christmas card, and holiday display had a fireplace and chimney. We didn’t. And why was I the only one worried about this? This was a huge issue. When I was then told not to worry because he would instead arrive through the furnace exhaust pipe on the roof, I got really panicky. That little thing? Are you frigging kidding? His sliding down the chimney was tough enough to wrap my brain around, but the furnace pipe?

After getting permission to cross our busy street, I stood on the far sidewalk and checked out our roof. The pipe looked about six inches wide. Who was kidding who here? Even assuming he was able to work some magic and reduce to the size of a softball to fit, he was going to end up landing inside the furnace! And there was no opening on the furnace to crawl out of! I know, I checked. Forget the fact the furnace squatted in the corner of the spookiest-looking cellar a five-year-old kid could imagine. Why would Santa ever even consider this place? Why battle your way out of a furnace only to find yourself in a damp and smelly basement where you’d need to avoid whacking your head on the low ceiling beams before having to climb a set of really unstable stairs just to reach the main floor where the tree was. If he didn’t knock himself out on the ceiling, there was no way he’d survive those old steps. The guy was FAT! He’d crash right through them and break a leg. All the houses on his route after ours would go presentless. That’s a lot of disappointed kids to feel responsible for. And what if all those kids who got nothing under their trees learned it was my house that put Santa out of commission? It was a terrifying thought. Nope, if I was in his boots, I’d just skip our house altogether and aim the reindeer in the direction of someplace that knew how to properly welcome him. But somehow, he made it. No angry little thug from down the street, or Canada, or Denmark showed up at the door wanting to punch me out because Santa never made it to their house.

I think the takeaway here is that I am one of those people who worry. Period. And the worry magnifies when I know I’m supposed to be feeling happy and gay. If there is a silver lining it is that I’m not alone. I am not too self-absorbed to not recognize that. So, happy belated holidays! I hope yours were all you wanted them to be, or what you felt they should be, or wished they could be.