Today is the day before Christmas. I happily spent the first part of it at a coffee shop, indulging myself with the first volume of a rather well-known graphic novel that I came across the other day. Afterward, I removed myself to a nearby bookstore so that I could purchase the second volume of this series. In other words, my day before Christmas has been comprised of errands. It is only natural, then, that I would follow up these errands with another.
Before leaving the house, my pseudo-stepmother approached me with a request: Pay a visit to a grocery store -- any grocery store, the choice was mine -- and pick up a couple of "take-home plates." (By this, I believe she meant a partitioned, disposable plate, ones that our guests could use to take food home with them. An American necessity, to be sure. The occasion? We're having a Christmas Eve dinner party. Another American necessity, to be sure.) A simple, routine task. An everyday kind of thing. In short, an errand.
Before leaving the house, my pseudo-stepmother approached me with a request: Pay a visit to a grocery store -- any grocery store, the choice was mine -- and pick up a couple of "take-home plates." (By this, I believe she meant a partitioned, disposable plate, ones that our guests could use to take food home with them. An American necessity, to be sure. The occasion? We're having a Christmas Eve dinner party. Another American necessity, to be sure.) A simple, routine task. An everyday kind of thing. In short, an errand.
This, then, was my mission: To return with partitioned, disposable plates.
For some reason, the visits to the coffee shop and the bookstore took precedence over the plates. This ordering of events ultimately injected something like a conflict into my quest. At the bookstore, I ran into my father, who was there buying gifts for my pseudo-stepmother ("I haven't gotten your pseudo-stepmother anything yet"). When I briefed him on the nature of my assignment, he advised me not to complete it. I asked why not; he grunted me away. The task, in all its triviality, must not have interested someone like him. And if it wasn't worth his time (as one might say), then I suppose he couldn't fathom why it would be worth mine.
For some reason, the visits to the coffee shop and the bookstore took precedence over the plates. This ordering of events ultimately injected something like a conflict into my quest. At the bookstore, I ran into my father, who was there buying gifts for my pseudo-stepmother ("I haven't gotten your pseudo-stepmother anything yet"). When I briefed him on the nature of my assignment, he advised me not to complete it. I asked why not; he grunted me away. The task, in all its triviality, must not have interested someone like him. And if it wasn't worth his time (as one might say), then I suppose he couldn't fathom why it would be worth mine.
You see, I was here faced with two options, a proverbial "fork in the road." I could either run the errand, procure the partitioned, disposable plates (for the convenience of our guests), and satisfy my pseudo-stepmother's request. Or, heeding the advice of my father, I could ignore the request, return home, and explain myself.
All of this got me thinking: The lion's share of the Christmas holiday belongs to errands.
Now, certainly I must have grown up knowing this to be true because, frankly, it doesn't surprise me very much. I've been conditioned to it as a matter of things. In fact, Christmas errands always carried a bit of prestige, if you'll allow me to put forth such an odd statement. I mean, when it comes down to it, Christmas has always been portrayed in terms of a struggle. Whether in books, or in films, or in plays, the Christmas struggle is everpresent. We struggle to find the right gifts. We struggle to have a perfect holiday. We struggle to be together as a family, to get along. And to succeed at this struggle -- this is honorable. Like I said, there's a bit of unexpected prestige lurking here.
Now, certainly I must have grown up knowing this to be true because, frankly, it doesn't surprise me very much. I've been conditioned to it as a matter of things. In fact, Christmas errands always carried a bit of prestige, if you'll allow me to put forth such an odd statement. I mean, when it comes down to it, Christmas has always been portrayed in terms of a struggle. Whether in books, or in films, or in plays, the Christmas struggle is everpresent. We struggle to find the right gifts. We struggle to have a perfect holiday. We struggle to be together as a family, to get along. And to succeed at this struggle -- this is honorable. Like I said, there's a bit of unexpected prestige lurking here.
So, as I tried to make up my own mind -- to go to the store or not to go to the store -- I asked myself: Is this it? Is this my struggle? Deciding whether I'm going to take fifteen extra minutes to purchase a couple of partitioned, disposable plates at a grocery store of my choosing? Is this what it all boils down to? Is there prestige here? Is this humorous? Is this disappointing? What emotion am I supposed to register?
The true life may not be reducible to words, but I do know this: That there was something of the true life captured in this bland, quotidian not-even-a-highlight of my existence. I knew that whatever I chose to do wouldn't ultimately make a difference one way or the other. I knew this. Yet, in the moment, it still felt important. My decision did, that is.
I think we can all relate with this. I think we've all "been there." I think there's something like a shared humanity in these slices of life.
I hope some of us would go the store and complete the task. I hope others of us wouldn't. Because each makes an important point. One says, "Look, I know this is important to you, and even though I may think this whole thing pretty ridiculous -- that the success of our dinner hinges on things like partitioned, disposable plates -- I'll do it for you because it's the holidays, because we're pseudo-family, because it feels right. Because all that matters is that we find joy in the happiness of others, and my doing this will make you happy." The other says, "Look, I know this is important to you, but please, just let it go. You don't need to squeeze perfection out of every last thing. Let this one thing be; I'm sure that the evening will still dance magically."
The true life may not be reducible to words, but I do know this: That there was something of the true life captured in this bland, quotidian not-even-a-highlight of my existence. I knew that whatever I chose to do wouldn't ultimately make a difference one way or the other. I knew this. Yet, in the moment, it still felt important. My decision did, that is.
I think we can all relate with this. I think we've all "been there." I think there's something like a shared humanity in these slices of life.
I hope some of us would go the store and complete the task. I hope others of us wouldn't. Because each makes an important point. One says, "Look, I know this is important to you, and even though I may think this whole thing pretty ridiculous -- that the success of our dinner hinges on things like partitioned, disposable plates -- I'll do it for you because it's the holidays, because we're pseudo-family, because it feels right. Because all that matters is that we find joy in the happiness of others, and my doing this will make you happy." The other says, "Look, I know this is important to you, but please, just let it go. You don't need to squeeze perfection out of every last thing. Let this one thing be; I'm sure that the evening will still dance magically."
I went to the store. I didn't find the plates.
