We all have guilty pleasures - those societally-scorned indulgences we don't confess in good company. Reality TV. Smutty romances. Michael Bublé.
Mine happens to be Christmas. All of it: the tinsel, the carols, the dogs dressed up in Santa outfits, the holiday drink specials at Starbucks. Love it.
But, as with other guilty pleasures, I'm careful who I admit this to.
Generally, my world-weary Gen Y peers are smugly anti-Christmas. Sure, they're happy for a few extra days off work. But get them started on Christmas and they'll lament the season's rapacious commercialism, its tacky dollar-store décor, its unrelenting carols - both the hokey and sexed-up pop versions - and, of course, the culmination of the season: that awkward Christmas dinner with the socially-maladjusted extended family.
Nor is my generation alone.
A quick Internet search on Christmastime depression points to extra time and budget pressures, the perceived social pressure to have an "ideal" family and the way such a "merry" backdrop highlights the pain of social isolation, divorce and deaths of loved ones.
All fair points.
I've polled a number of peers to try to figure out why I'd defend Christmas to the death in a world which - small children excepted - could apparently take it or leave it. And as far as I can deduce, it comes down to one simple fact: I happen to adore my family - even the socially-maladjusted extended part.
Which makes me lucky.
And I'll grant that the few years when I've been stranded across the globe or the country at Christmastime, I've dodged the Christmas blues only through the kindness of strangers and a liberal stash of Irish stubbornness.
But I hope, even without my riotous clan, I'd search for the light in this season.
Here, in no particular order, are my reasons for defending Christmas:
The indulgences: butter shortbread hot out of the oven, rum-laced eggnog, apple cider, mincemeat tarts, mulled wine, hot chocolate with marshmallows, boxes of really good chocolates and a Christmas feast with turkey and lots of stuffing.
The traditions: wreaths on doors, snowmen with hats and carrot noses, sledding with small kids, building gingerbread houses, Christmas lights against an inky sky, battling with the Christmas tree to get it standing straight in its stand, the smell of cedar boughs, kids whispering Christmas wishes to mall Santas, Bing Crosby singing White Christmas, Elvis singing Blue Christmas, kids in bathrobes acting out the nativity play and Christmas TV specials: the Dr. Seuss version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas, A Charlie Brown Christmas, It's a Wonderful Life, the Muppet Christmas Carol.
The ridiculous: store clerks wearing antlers and Santa hats, inflatable snowmen and Santas on people's lawns, that album where the cats sing Christmas carols, any animal in a Santa or elf outfit, and those amazing more-is-better Christmas light displays that are simultaneously blowing every fuse on the block and putting Martha Stewart on the verge of rage-driven cardiac arrest.
The sublime: carolling by candlelight, waking up to the perfect stillness of a white Christmas, an invite to a "real" Christmas when you wouldn't otherwise have one, and any time "the spirit of Christmas" inspires a generous, selfless act.
So there you have it. My defence of Christmas. And I promise I won't defend Michael Bublé next. I do have some standards.
