Et tu, Christmas? Et tu?

Christmas, what has happened to us? I don't even know you anymore. We used to be so in love. It’s mechanical now between us. I’m going through the motions and so are you. I remember counting the days until you arrived, bigger and bigger each year, filling my heart with excited anticipation.

You know you’ve been the only one. I waited until the turkey was devoured and moldy porch pumpkins were tossed into the trash before playing my Celine Dion Christmas CD, starving my flesh of anything red or tinsly until the appointed time. I thought what we had was special.

You just don’t appreciate me. Yes, that’s it exactly. You smirked when I carried in boughs of green like a pack mule—placing them strategically atop shelves, cabinets and tables, peppering each with sparkly white lights.

Do you even understand how hard I strategize—organizing times and dates with the finesse of an air traffic controller, attempting to make every cookie exchange, holiday sale, Christmas parade and tree lighting ceremony?

What happened? When did our love grow cold?

Was it the Charlie Brown tree purchased once again by the toothless gentleman with the odd tree farm? Crooked, handicapped five dollar trees were tender and even adorably funny twenty years ago…not so much now.

Maybe it was the tinkling crash that woke us up at 4:30am and the carnage I found below, our special ornaments and fragile mementos in a tangled, shattered mess.

It could have been the Christmas party I attended last night in the adorable black dress and shiny red pumps. Two words sweetheart; Casual Dress.

I'm guessing it was when my girlfriend showed up this afternoon with her homemade cookies and her Crest with Tartar Control smile. “I’m done with my Christmas shopping. My gifts are wrapped and under our tree.” Her words rang in my ears like the screaming sirens of a four-alarm fire response.

We need to work at “us” again.