I’ve always wanted a real Christmas tree. The smell of it, the way it looks, and even cleaning up the needles when it’s all said and done – the whole thing appeals to me. As a kid, my family sweetly tried, but being the “goddam foreigners” we are (as my aunt would say), the holidays were always a little skewed. Case in point, our Thanksgiving side dishes of basmati rice and frittata.
A couple of years ago, I was out for New Year’s and I spotted a discarded Christmas tree in the street. It was in great shape, like it hadn’t even been used. I dragged it (in my cocktail dress and heels, freezing my butt off in 10-degree weather) about a block, smiling all the way (better late than never!), before deciding it wasn’t feasible to pull the tree the length of Manhattan.
I walk past Christmas tree sellers on every block of the city, and I sigh a little, wishing I was one of those lucky people who was getting a tree… a wreath… a garland. So, I decided to crawl up into my attic yesterday and dig out my modest ornaments, as a little cheer me up. I spent half the afternoon stringing up icicle lights in front of my one window, hanging up stockings, and wrapping the few gifts I was able to get. And when I was out running errands today, I walked past these cute little mini Chistmas trees in the grocery store window, and I decided to get myself one. I put it up on my coffee table, and I’ve already watered it, and I keep looking over at it and smiling.