Every year in December, there are moments when I feel like my husband Ted is a regular Grinch compared to my Buddy the Elf. Take, for example, the much-anticipated Christmas tree trimming. Without fail, for eleven of the thirteen years we've been married, Ted has consistently pulled a Harry Houdini at what's traditionally a group activity. Yep, he mysteriously escapes all involvement. While I'm busy stringing lights, hanging ornaments, and creating holiday memories, he's holed up in a milk can somewhere, strategically avoiding all evergreen contact. You'd think he had a synthetic pine needle allergy.
The thing is, when we first got married, I didn't realize that Ted preferred life on snowy Mount Crumpit to citizenship in Whoville. Our first holiday season together we were too busy exchanging vows and honeymooning in Paris for me to see that this man to whom I pledged my life and love didn't share my enthusiasm for the holiday season.
Nope, his lackluster attitude for holidays in general wasn't something we covered in premarital counseling. Rather, it was something I came to discover with time. Something that, if I'd been more observant during our engagement, perhaps wouldn't have come as such a shock our first Christmas stateside. After all, he was the guy who intentionally spent his last Thanksgiving as a single man in his condo, by himself, playing video games.