Deeply flawed, but fundamentally decent, I approach life with an irreverent attitude toward certain modern social conventions, while harboring a profound nostalgia for bygone traditions of honor and decency. We each have our own code, and I succeed and fail by mine.
Being morose around the holidays goes beyond being acceptable; it is a righteous and just disposition. Facing the ritualistic façade that still governs my immediate family is dreadful. Acting the loyal house-slave to empty traditions with forgotten meaning, struggling to find a common conversation point beyond the family pets, and straining every muscle of emotional discipline not to lash out at the intrinsic phoniness of the whole exercise is all very tiring. Yet, the hierarchy of loyalties and obligations that govern WASPdom demand that we willingly walk into a good old-fashioned nightmare and play our parts with every shroud of dignity and decency that can be mustered. For all of the pain felt in other places, executing my duty with samurai like precision almost negates the massive emotional downside. Almost. Years ago, I grew disillusioned with the pomp and circumstance of the holidays when all of the aforementioned became clear. While the myth of “happy holidays” was shattered like crowbar striking cheap china, I will acknowledge all of the hard work that certain adults put into place shielding younglings from the obvious void. As I grow older, the days become a “daze,” and I look forward to searching for a shroud of optimism that the next year will usher in a revelation that could potentially liberate me from the tired and drained holiday routine that came with adult life. Perhaps the werewolf is just channeling something that Scrooge knew only too well. Bah-Humbug!