The days after Thanksgiving. When married men go to the ER for a new cast from falling off the roof while installing the Christmas decorations their wives insist on, and single men sit around in their underwear watching sports and consuming adult beverages.

Holiday decorations are a lot like lawns. For some reason, wives are in charge of both.

If men had our way, a lawn would have grass. No shrubs, bushes, or any plant that can sever your arm if you get too close on the zero-turn lawn tractor. There’d also be nothing to weed eat around.

There would be grass. Just grass.

Same is true with holiday decorations. If the fellas were in charge, there’d be no icicle lights to wrap the house, no inflatable Santas, and nothing; I mean absolutely nothing that goes on the chimney.

Right about the time the tryptophan from the turkey and the smile-inducing eggnog kicks in, the words, “OK, time to get the decorations out of the attic!” are uttered.

This triggers married men to then text their single buddies and tell them what was just said. Their single buddies text them back a picture of the game on TV and the adult beverage they are holding in their hand.

The married guys slowly drag themselves out of their La-Z-Boys and climb the stairs to the attic with the same enthusiasm as that doomed guy in the movie The Green Mile.

Down comes the tree and three dozen boxes of wreaths, ceramic reindeer, bubble lights and other assorted things married men are instructed not to break.

Since Texas is only cold for about 20 minutes in December, the married fellas are still recovering from losing an arm to the razor shrub out front. So the threat of additional injury for rendering bubble lights unbubbly is real and feared.

About this time, the married men’s single buddies text them a picture of the lawn guy who’s mowing the grounds at their apartment. The married guys text the single guys back a photo, which cannot be described here.

If a married guy is fortunate, he has other married brethren in his neighborhood. They join together to take turns climbing on each other’s roofs to install the icicle lights. If their timing is good, they’ll each fall off a roof at a different time, which allows for assistance if an ambulance is needed.

Eventually, the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, and married men get a break for a couple of weeks. Typically, through New Year’s Day.

Right about the time the tryptophan from the leftover turkey and the smile-inducing eggnog kicks in, the words, “OK, time to get the decorations back in the attic!” are uttered.

The married men don’t text their single buddies at this point, because they’re still in bed recovering from the previous night’s parties.

The reverse process begins and eventually, everything is put back in the attic.

Just as the married men sit back down in their La-Z-Boys, the holidays are over and it’s time to go back to work. The married men shower, shave, and kiss their wives as they head out the door.

When I was a kid, I always felt sorry for Charlie Brown and his Christmas tree. I bet he’s married now. I hope it’s not to Lucy. She strikes me as the kinda gal who’d want lots of decorations, and plants nothing but razor shrubs in the yard.

Maybe he could call Schroeder and go hang out with him. I’m sure Schroeder’s still single and has plenty of smile-inducing eggnog he’d share.

 

©2020 John Moore

To send John a message; buy his books, Write of Passage: A Southerner’s View of Then and Now Vol. 1 and Vol. 2, or listen to his Weekly 5-Minute Podcast; visit his website at TheCountryWriter.com.