Years later, my aunt confessed that she’d hated “having” to host these yearly get-togethers as much as I’d dreaded attending them.
And here I’d thought that part of being a grown-up meant you could more or less get out of doing things you didn’t want to do.
That’s how I’ve approached my adulthood, anyway.
So these days our Christmases, such as they are, involve one fairly hasty meal with bits of my husband’s family — my own relatives being now either safely dead or estranged.
Our house is poinsettia- and tree-free on account of our cat.
Besides exchanging gifts with my husband and devouring too much Costco panettone, the holiday season isn’t that much different than the rest of the year.
I avoid what may be the most popular of all the Christmas movies, though — partly for what I’ll pompously call “ideological” reasons and partly because I grew up watching two of them in heavy rotation anyhow.
The first one I’m writing about, I more or less lived.