Decking the Halls

I’ve been in this apartment for almost a year now. I’ve had a lot of firsts here: the first utilities in my name, my first renter’s insurance policy, the first new mattress I’ve ever owned alone, my first time hanging artwork on the walls without input from anyone else. And that’s on top of my first birthday, Easter, Fourth of July, Halloween and Thanksgiving in this apartment.

I thought maybe all my firsts were done, but then my mom brought a big cardboard box and a large plastic container tied with string to Thanksgiving dinner at my brother’s house. I had almost forgotten about those.

It’s the first time I’ve decorated this apartment for Christmas.

I’m not a huge advocate of Christmas. I don’t mind the holiday, but I do detest the over-commercialization of it, the emphasis on consumerism, the six solid weeks of aggressive advertisements and repetitive music.

What I love about this time of year is the feeling of magic. For me, that feeling comes from pretty lights and nostalgia.

As I opened those two boxes the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I rediscovered memory after memory. Some were from my adult work life: ornaments co-workers gave me at holiday cookie parties, one that came from a dear friend who has since passed away, a gaudy glass owl that had been tied to a package from another friend I rarely see anymore.

Some were from my childhood: three tiny stockings with Santa’s face printed on them that hung from a hutch in our living room from as far back as I can remember, two fragile glass ornaments that came from my mother’s childhood, a felt tree that I sewed from scraps with a toggle button for a trunk.

Everything had been stored so carefully last year, wrapped in tissue or holiday-themed hand towels, tucked into plastic boxes, stacked and wedged together just so. I do not remember packing the decorations like this. The end of last year is a blur for me—conflicting emotions crashed into each other in waves, bringing me now expectant joy, now crushing guilt, now paralyzing fear of the clean slate before me, now giddy joy again.

I’m grateful that I didn’t unpack these decorations and emotions alone. Even though I have learned to be comfortable with myself alone over the year, this fraught journey was rendered pleasant by the company of a friend. We hadn’t planned to put up decorations, but the boxes rather called to us as we poured wine and listened to music and talked. We put on some nontraditional Christmas music and dove in.

Unencumbered by my nostalgic baggage, my friend brought fresh eyes to each treasure we unwrapped. I told stories and explained histories. He didn’t leave me room to wallow as we strung colored lights around the balcony doors, arranged ribbons on wall art, and fashioned a door wreath from fake boughs and mismatched tidbits. At a certain point, we abandoned the whole mess of wrappings and debris to go out for Indian food. It was honestly one of the best times I’ve ever had with Christmas decorations.

And so begins my first Christmas season in this apartment. I’ll have my first New Year’s Eve, as well—I moved in on January first. Life is filled with firsts. I’ve had a lot of first dates this year, a lot of first forays into new groups, new experiences, new jobs. I am grateful for each one, even those that didn’t work out so well, because each one taught me something about myself.

For now, I’m going to enjoy my treasured trinkets and holiday nostalgia in the warm glow of colorful artificial lights. Without my glasses on, they really do look magical.