I've been in a bit of a funk lately.
In an effort to buck up, I decided that this would be the year that I bought a Christmas tree. I have never had a tree before. I have always gone home to Minnesota for Christmas, where there are trees, and stockings, and candy canes all over the place. I've never wanted a tree in my apartment before.
This afternoon I went over to the tree lot and I wandered around and looked at naked Christmas trees. The activity was supposed to cheer me up, but I became more and more sad as I walked up and down the aisles. Suddenly, buying a tree and decorating it alone in my apartment seemed like the loneliest thing I could imagine. I left the lot without a tree, close to tears.
As I walked back to my car after the debacle, I saw a big broken branch lying underneath a storm damaged tree. Without too much deliberation I picked it up and put it in my car. Then I bought some white spray paint and some glitter.
It turns out I do want a Christmas tree, but I want it to be a tree that fits with me.
It's more of a Christmas branch, actually.
I love my branch. When I woke up this morning I didn't own a tree, any ornaments, or a single twinkle light. Twelve dollars later, I am fully equipped with a fine looking branch.
Nothing cheers me up like fully expressing my quirky whims.