Christmas decorating. Two little words that sound so innocent, so magical. But for anyone who’s actually lived through it, you know it’s less about joy and more about hemorrhaging money and your sanity. And the price tag? Forget “Deck the Halls,” we’re talking “Deck Your Bank Account.” Because apparently, in 2024, you can’t celebrate the birth of Christ without the birth of a fresh pile of credit card debt.
Let me tell you about the circus happening in my house right now. My wife, Julie, has decided we need to put the tree up this weekend. You heard me—before Thanksgiving. The turkey hasn’t even had its moment of overcooked glory, and she’s already insisting on a ten-foot shrine to capitalism in the living room. Fine. I love her, I really do, but my seasonal joy dies a little every time I have to drag out our four-year-old pre-lit tree. It’s ten feet tall because, of course, we have high ceilings, and obviously you can’t have a tree that doesn’t stretch to the heavens.
So, I wrestle this beast out of storage, nearly throw my back out, and what do I find? All but two or three of the damn lights are burned out. The tree might as well have looked me in the eye and said, “Not today, buddy.” I suggest the logical thing: let’s just buy a new one. Cue Julie pulling out her phone and going straight to Balsam Hill, a website that appears to cater exclusively to suburban moms who sip pumpkin spice lattes while lounging on piles of disposable income.
And here’s where my blood pressure spikes: most of their fake trees—FAKE trees—have prices with a comma. Over a thousand bucks, sometimes well over, for something that doesn’t even smell like a tree. Are you kidding me? For that price, this thing better do a lot more than stand there looking festive. It better decorate itself, massage my feet, and pour me a bourbon after I haul it into the house. It better come with Wi-Fi and a built-in AI that tells Julie, “No, that ornament doesn’t go there—try the other branch.” Honestly, for $1,000+, I expect it to write my will and tell me how I died from Christmas-induced bankruptcy.
But the tree? That’s just the first chapter in the saga. Decorating in our house is a full-blown, multi-day event. We’re talking Simpich angels, Simpich carolers, enough garland to strangle a moose, and Julie carefully arranging every piece like she’s curating an exhibit for the Smithsonian. And guess who gets to haul all the crap upstairs from the basement? Me. Fifty tubs. Yes, fifty. Each one feels like it’s packed with bricks, but when Julie opens them, she’ll only use about a third of what’s inside. So what happens to the other 70 pounds of unused holiday cheer? That’s right—back to the basement. But don’t worry; it’s all coming back upstairs in five weeks when it’s time to pack it all up again for another 11 months of storage. Rinse and repeat until death.
And that’s just the inside. Let’s talk about the outside, where things get even more absurd. Once upon a time, you could throw some lights on the porch, maybe hang a wreath, and call it a day. Not anymore. Now, it’s a full-blown arms race in the neighborhood. The same clowns I was silently competing with all summer over lawn care are now trying to out-decorate me for Christmas. It’s an unspoken contest to see whose house can look the most like Santa’s workshop exploded.
But here’s the thing: I’m getting too old and too fat to be climbing around on a two-story roof trying to hang lights. So, I thought I’d hire someone to do it. Do you know what they charge? Commas. These professional light-hanging companies must assume I live in a mansion and wipe my ass with gold leaf, because their prices make the Balsam Hill trees look like bargains. What exactly am I paying for? For those rates, I expect a synchronized light show set to Trans-Siberian Orchestra and a Santa who actually slides down the chimney with gifts.
The worst part? I can’t even blame Julie for all of it. I do love how the house looks when it’s done. I love her excitement, the warm glow of the lights, and how cozy it all feels once the chaos has settled. But good Lord, getting there is like running a marathon in heels while juggling flaming ornaments. It’s no longer about celebrating the birth of Christ—it’s about surviving the birth of credit card debt and the premature death of my lower back.
And you know what really gets me? When I was a kid, Christmas was so much simpler. My mom had a tree. Three little electric candles went in the window. That was it. No Pinterest-worthy setups, no four-figure fake trees, no neighborhood Cold War of holiday cheer. And somehow, it still felt magical. What the hell happened?
So, here I am. I’ll haul the tubs, wrestle with the lights, and curse under my breath because I love my wife and I love my family. But make no mistake—Christmas decorating is no holiday. It’s a grueling endurance event disguised as festive cheer.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go pour an eggnog the size of a fishbowl. I’ve earned it.
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