Sister Mary Agatha was an equal opportunity enforcer, so it came as no surprise when she rapped my knuckles for singing Frosty the Snowman more loudly than anyone else in my fifth grade class. I think I can trace my dislike of holiday music to that afternoon in 1956.
Christmas has become a parody of itself, and I don’t mean the fun kind. Stores have holiday decorations up before Halloween. That goddamned music plays incessantly in almost every commercial establishment as an inducement to buy more stuff; the economy depends on you going into debt even though you can’t afford to do so.
Then there’s the absurdity of the reason for the season. Historians, not blinded by religious ferver, have determined that even if the baby Jesus did exist, he was more likely born in July. Even more revolting are radical Christianists (just like radical Islamists only without the violence… yet) who demand that the employees of all of those commercial establishments say, “merry christmas!” to any and all, regardless of the personal preference of the speaker or recipient. Failure gets one labeled as an enemy combatant in the WAR ON CHRISTMAS
All that is to say even when I was the church lady, not too long ago, I didn’t like christmas very much. Christmas is boring, the same crap year-after-year. My birthday party as an eight-year-old was different than any party I would have been given when I turned sixty-eight. Yet christmas celebrations subject us to the same music, same advertising, same cultural expectations, and because time passes more quickly as we get older, it all happens more frequently, regardless what the calendar says. Adult Jesus must be weeping because we keep him in that fucking manger, and have been giving him myrh and frankincense each year for more than two millennia. What he really wants are the latest XBox and an iPad Pro.