It's too early

I realize Thanksgiving is past, the holiday season has officially begun. But my neighborhood looks like a bad scene from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. And it's not even December.

Gary offered this weekend to pull out the Christmas boxes, go through the decorations. Frankly, I didn't have the heart. The fact that it is in the mid-70s isn't helping. This, of course, is my problem; I have to readjust for the weather here. One of the many concessions I have to make in order to live in Texas.

Keeping up with the neighbors isn't even an option. This is what happens when you move to a yuppie suburb, and I'm not sure I care for the direction we're headed. It's not enough to hang lights; people call in professional Christmas light installers (though the term "professional" here is used in the loosest sense of the word). I'm fairly certain these houses would show up on a satellite image. Behind us glows like Las Vegas.

It doesn't stop at lights; imagine, if you will, large inflatables on the lawn, surrounded by lighted deer and spiral trees. Mailboxes are topped with bows and greenery; yards and driveways and edged in lights. Luminaria lead the way up the front walk.

I shudder to think what's next.

I'm only competitive in board games and bowling; I can let the Christmas glory be had by others. We will put up our tree, and I plan to use the greenery and bows that formerly festooned our front porch on our indoor stair railing. We'll hang our wreath, address the cards (into which I shall enclose a much-abbreviated Christmas letter) and call it a holiday. We shall bake and decorate cookies and listen to carols on our ever-growing collection of Christmas CDs (though Gary disagrees and thinks that it is, in fact, possible to have too much Christmas music).

I like Christmas as much as the next gal; I'm no Scrooge. But I don't need 200 feet of flashing lights to tell the world that I believe in Peace on Earth.

All the same, I'm looking for the number of the light hangers. Just in case; December arrives on Friday.