I already said that not only do I not feel any sort of Christmas spirit, but I’m beginning to kind of hate it.
Tonight, with Poor Kyle out of town, I sat down to watch a little telly (at my in-laws’ house, on account of our cable being revoked a few months ago), and was secretly delighted to see that the local channel was featuring Dr. Seuss’ How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
Image from here.
That movie has long been one of my favourite Christmas flicks—it’s always been a sure-fire way to get me into the swing of the holidays and really feel the joy of the season the way I used to as a kid.
This year, however, all I could focus on was…
…that poor little dog.
Amazing blinking image from here.
I just felt so sorry for that dog, and I very rarely feel compassion for any animals. For some reason, though, little ol’ Max really pulled at my heartstrings. He’s always taking abuse from the nasty, mean Mr. Grinch:
Image from here.
And those antlers! They must weigh ten times the poor dog’s own BMI…
Image from here.
Soon I asked myself, as I sat watching the classic movie I so revered in my childhood, “Why? Why does Max stay with mean old Mr. Grinch? Does he have no other alternative? Does he have no place to go? Or maybe he’s just stuck in the midst of a vicious abuse cycle…never trusting himself to maintain an identity beyond being the Grinch’s slave… As for me, I would never put up with such mistreatment. I would have to be chemically sedated to allow myself to be treated like garbage that way.”
I was working up a brilliant load of steam, becoming more furious with the dog than sympathetic, when it occurred to me: Who on Earth cares? It’s a 30-minute animated movie made in the ’60s. Life was wonky in the ’60s. I mean, Dr. Seuss actually wrote phrases like “They flared their flamsneegles and stomped their stompeezles,” and still got published. Has anyone in the history of the world ever questioned Max’s motives for playing lapdog to the Grinch? I seriously doubt it…because it’s the dumbest thing a person could possibly worry about at a time like this. Times like today, when I had to bake from sunup to sundown, and most of my concoctions failed pathetically. Times like tomorrow, when I’ll have to shower and make myself presentable for a slew of mall-shoppers and their *darling* children. Times like the day after that, when I have to show up at a Christmas party thirty minutes early to play some piano music which I haven’t yet practised.
May this be a Christmas lesson to all of you.
This holiday season, do people a favour and fret about things that actually matter.
What are you anxious about this week?
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