The day after Christmas

December 26th. No one ever talks about that date: 360th day of the year; day the Erie Canal opened in 1825; birthday of the unfortunate 1/365th of the world's population; day Babe Ruth was sold to the Yankees in 1919. (Hmm, that should have told us something.)

My gripe with December 26th is nothing that happens, but about what conspicuously does not happen --- Christmas music. I trust it has not escaped your notice that the songs all come to a screeching halt that day. No face-saving tapering off to a trickle till the tap be tightly turned on New Year's night; I'm talking about cold turkey, pardon the pun.

Now by December 26th, mind you, I have had surfeit of figgy pudding and Jingle Bells like the next person, having been force fed since the morning after Halloween. No, cessation is not my problem. It is the manner of cessation that continues to be, each year, the occasion of acute embarrassment --- the fact that the deed isn't done a bit more gradually and tastefully, so as to not make it patently obvious that the strafe bombing of airways and malls had been cynical marketing manipulation.

December 25th is a good time, but December 26th feels like betrayal, like I've been had, like I'm Charlie Brown fallen the umpteenth time for Lucy's promise to hold the football steady while I run for a kick.

I'm just glad Jesus still loves me the morning after.