Published: December 11, 2007 09:06 pm            

STEPHANIE SALTER: Makin’ a list, checkin’ it 786 times, descendin’ into despair

TERRE HAUTE — From the outside, nothing appears amiss. I even sport a little smile, and chirp, “Mmm-hmm!” a lot. No one could ever guess what is going on inside.

Inside, my stomach hurts, my jaw is clamped shut and I am on permanent inhale. One song repeatedly loops through my brain, like “I’ve Got You, Babe” in “Groundhog Day.” But this song is even worse: It’s the Jackson Five, with baby, high-pitch-voiced Michael squeaking, “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”

The exterior smile is a lie. Inside, I am confined to the third ring of Dante’s Hell.

It is now only 12 full days until Christmas, and I have bought one measly present. Had it not been for a crafts fair in September, I wouldn’t even have that.

In addition (or subtraction), there is no evergreen tree — artificial or otherwise — displayed in my house. No lights twinkle in the windows or from the shrubbery and lamp post outdoors. My block is aglow in multi-colored holiday luminosity, except for the deep black hole that is my place.

Four boxes of Christmas decorations lie open on the floor of my home office. They look as though burglars had been told the boxes contained solid gold ingots, but discovered mid-ransack that they had been the victims of a cruel hoax.

Hanging on the doorknob of the foyer closet (and blocking access to my winter coats) is a plastic bag overflowing with cut greenery. Last weekend, a dear neighbor hosted a wreath-making party. My half-finished effort is slung over the back of a dining room chair, waiting in vain for spruce and white pine reinforcements from the plastic bag.

A red bow or holly sprigs? Sure. When Rudolph really flies.

Everywhere I look in my personal holiday landscape there are negatives. Tasks not executed. Items not purchased. Cookies not baked. Stockings not hung. Eggnog not spiked. Extension cords not plugged in.

Christmas cards? Need you ask? They, too, lie in their little cardboard cradles — unaddressed, unstamped, unmailed, untouched.

The Joy of Christmas Prosecutor’s table is piled high with exhibits attesting to the wisdom of my indictment. They show me to be irredeemably guilty of failing at every aspect of Christmas 2007.

No piece of evidence proves me more despicable than my actual Christmas List. It has two names and two possible gifts scrawled on it. The vast emptiness of the rest of the page screams, “J’accuse!”

Unknowing, my sister becomes the most powerful witness against me. In a weeknight phone call she recounts her previous Saturday and Sunday and says, “I’ve got 90 percent of my Christmas shopping done.”

What? Her job is even more demanding than mine. Lots more. Her list of people to buy for is three times the length of mine. She was practically bedridden for 10 days with some virus. Ninety percent? How could she do this to me?

Usually, I burst with happiness at my sister’s achievements. But not this time. I hate her. Her success underscores my failure. Her 90 percent turns harsh, bright floodlights on an ugly fact: I haven’t even done 10 percent of my shopping.

My virtual Christmas List — the one that gnaws on my face and ears at 3 a.m. — is worse than the real one. All those names lined up make me think about how little money I have this year to buy gifts. Each name corresponds to an unexpected outlay of cash with which I have parted over the past several months (or soon will). Doctors and pharmacy bills, a furnace emergency, unplanned air fare, a major repair project on my house in California, a property tax hike in Indiana.

At the end of this exercise looms something even worse: Massive guilt.

I’ve got a lot of nerve carping about money. I am employed. My paycheck covers my light bill and groceries (so far). I have no children or grandchildren who watch television, clamor for all they see advertised and never suspect that their family is too poor to drive into the parking lot of Toys “R” Us, let alone buy anything.

What a Christmas loser. I can’t even succeed at feeling bad about being a gift-buying failure. I’m a failure at failing.

My niece in Maryland phones to double-check some information about one of her sisters and her grandma. She and her husband can’t make the trip this Christmas so she is ordering all her gifts online and sending them to Indiana.

How dare she? I knew this kid when she couldn’t stay upright on a two-wheel bicycle. And now she is efficiently powering her way through cyber space, checking names off her gift list as fast as you can mouse-click “delete.” I hate her, too.

News releases pop into my e-mail box at work. Their subject lines intensify my humiliation. “Holiday Burn Out? Avoid Procrastination.” (Now you tell me.) “New Stocking Stuffers!” (Stuff this.) “Beautiful Home, Beautiful You — All Through the Holidays.” (Bull#@%*!)

Three of my closest friends e-mail their wishlists with ideas for gifts. We have capped the cost this year at $25 per present. I decide to concentrate on this list. The thing I bought at the crafts fair in September was destined for one of these friends. That means I have 33 percent of this part of my Christmas shopping done.

Nice try. But it’s no use. Unabated, here in the third ring of Hell, Michael Jackson wails on.

Stephanie Salter can be reached at (812) 231-4229 or stephanie.salter@tribstar.com.

        

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