Imagine this kid, but swarthier.

Perhaps you think you know envy.  You know no such thing.  Envy–and I mean the real, loin-tugging yearning that comes from the very fibers of your soul–is being a little Jewish girl at Christmastime.  Oh, we’ve been coddled and condescended to, promised eight nights of presents and powdery jelly doughnut holes and mediocre chocolate coins.  We’ve decorated our cubbies with crepe paper dreidels and sung our little Semitic hearts out in three different languages, only two of which are still spoken.  We’ve deluded ourselves into believing that our cute little holiday, insignificant even by Jewish standards, is even a pebble ricocheting off the granite mountain that is Christmas; meanwhile, we secretly memorize the carols and perk up at the jingle bells piped into the supermarket.  We peer furtively into the homes of our friends, all alight in sparkles and holly, our Jewish breath frosting the glass.

“Thank God we don’t have to deal with all that,” we’d say to comfort ourselves, toasting our cups of jasmine tea and passing around the moo shu. “Who needs the stress of the buying presents, the inevitable family squabbles, the high suicide rates?  Who needs it?  NOT US.”  And it’s true; perhaps not unduly because of my December birthday, I found my envy dissipating into relief as I got older.  It was kind of nice to be the outsider, to just absorb the parts of Christmas that I loved–twinkling white lights, garishly-decorated houses, eggnog lattes, midnight mass, the smell of the trees, Boxing Day–and have the luxury of ignoring the screaming commercials, the pressure of perfection, the crash of the comedown.  Yearning melted into Zen.  Christmas will never be mine, I realized, and perhaps that’s how it should be.

Then I started dating a lapsed Catholic, flew home with him one snowy December, and all adult reason went out the window.

“You mean…I get to help decorate the tree?  You mean, really?!” I dove headfirst into the cardboard boxes, tissue paper flying.  I gingerly held up a frosted ball by its hook, cradling it protectively with my other hand.

“Wow,”  I murmured, awe-struck.  “What’s the significance of this one?”

E. sighed.  “Look.  I don’t know.  I think we got that in a 6-pack from Target a few years ago.”

I was presented with an ornament of my very own, proudly stating that 2009 was “Baby’s First Christmas”, while my impossibly Jewish name was sewn into a stocking and hung with care alongside all the others.  My cup of eggnog runneth over.

***

“SO, I WAS thinking,” E. said as we dragged the last of the moving boxes onto the curb on a warm September trash night.  “What if we got a tree this year?”

I froze.  The delicious forbidden fruit was hanging so close, I could reach out and touch it.  “I don’t know…” I said, taking the path of righteousness.  “Seems like it might cross the goyish line for me.”

By this point, we were standing in our dining room, my Grandmother’s handmade chanukiah prominently displayed on its own shelf.

“You know,” he said quietly, “…it is my religion.”

Well, I can’t argue with that!

“Done!” I exclaimed, throwing my arms around his neck.  Thank you thank you!

***

LAST NIGHT, MY friend Kelly and I drove to Michael’s Arts & Crafts to purchase decorations for our respective homes.  Circumstances being what they were, E. wasn’t able to join.  Tasked with the lights and “starter” ornaments, I broke away in my search, and found myself confronted with a wall of every brand of every strand and every color of light, with decorated balls and plain balls and silver bells and tinsel and reindeer caps.  Frank Sinatra crooned his carols over the loudspeaker.

“KELLY!”  I cried into the cluttered abyss.  “HOW DO I DO THIS?!”

She quickly emerged, laughed at my stricken face, placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.  “I’ve never taught someone how to do this before,” she said.  “I didn’t actually realize this kind of thing needed to be taught.”

And so I learned that it takes three boxes of lights and five boxes of ornaments to cover a tree–though of course it depends on the size and style (branch integrity), that $4.99 a box is quite reasonable, and that the hooks don’t come with the ornaments–you have to purchase them separately.  Ten minutes before the store closed, I staggered to the cash register, weighed down by my bounty, when I realized I’d forgotten the hooks.

“Silver or green?” asked the impatient clerk.

“Uh…” I stammered.  Kelly was nowhere to be found.  “Oh God.  Um.  Green?!”

The clerk tossed the box to the waiting cashier, who glanced at the clock and proceeded to scan box after box of ornaments and ribbon.  I laughed apologetically, and, completely necessarily, explained:

“I’m Jewish, you see.”

***

“GREEN HOOKS, HUH?” E. said, thumbing through my plastic bags.  “My family always did silver, but…”

He saw my face fall.

“…I’m all for starting new traditions.”  He wrapped his arms around my sagging, sorry self.

“Besides,” he said, cuddling into my neck.  “Shame on me for letting the Jew do the Christmas shopping.”