I love Christmas trees. I love the way they look, the way they smell, and just the overall holiday joy they bring to life. That said, actually having a Christmas tree, in my own home, is a giant pain in the ass.
First of all, there is the space issue. Ryan and I reside in a home that has 950 square feet of livable space. Now, while that is big for an Ikea display, it is really pretty small for a home containing two adults, a baby, all of the baby's crap, a cat, a dog, and an insane kitten. In normal conditions it is pretty easy to feel like all of our belongings are slowly suffocating us. We are constantly in a state of "clearing out." Really, we have been mistaken for Buddhists. The only thing that gives us away is how I treat other people. So, you can only imagine how much more cramped it feels with a seven foot tall, fully decorated Christmas tree right in the middle of it. On the up side, the house is so small that the tree makes every room smell delicious. On the down side, it feels like we are always squeezing past the damn tree. It's like living in the "Santaland Diaries."
Second, there is the issue of needles. I am not a fake tree person. Ryan is not a fake tree person. Meg and Sally might prefer fake trees, but they don't get votes. So, the tree that we have in our house was at one point alive, and slowly dying, and drying out, as it fill us with the spirit of Christmas. That means every day it is dropping needles. Lots and lots of needles. And it is dropping them right on my clean floor. I think everyone has one chore that they are especially OCD about, and mine is keeping the floors clean. While the Christmas tree is up I practically live with the broom, and the vacuum is never allowed to go back in the basement, which just creates more clutter, and more stress.
Oh, and don't even get me started on actually getting the tree, putting it up, and taking it down. We'll just consider that collateral aggravation. And we won't even talk about the additional problems caused by having a cat that is possibly paranoid schizophrenic, since those are special circumstances I have subjected myself to, and that no sane person would mimic.
I almost wish we could go back to the days when Ryan and I stuck a ribbon on a lamp and called it our tree. Of course, that led to ridicule from an 8-year old (Hi, Josie, "Hey Dad, that's their tree" still rings in my ears) and I don't think I could bear that again.
Thank God we don't have to do this for Easter. Of course, with that holiday you just have to hope you find all the eggs. Because one left behind won't smell as pretty as a Christmas tree -- and will leave an even bigger mess.