Tre white bunnies and pink baskets started it. Easter merchandise began to appear on store
_.. Shelves three weeks ago. Stuffed rabbits and chocolate eggs followed right on the heels of
,,, Valentine cards and chocolate hearts. Yesterday, I walked down the aisle past the remnants of
, «- green shamrocks, and suddenly, I grew dizzy. Beads of perspiration ran down my cheeks as I felt |
.” myself hyperventilating — and then it hit me: only 287 days left until Christmas. .
_ A jolt of panic flashed through my mind, That’s only 41 weeks, not counting the 13 hours, 22
_ yninutes and 7 seconds left in the day. So there I was, mere steps away from fa-la-la-la-la-ing and
hadn't even seen it coming. Why, right after the bunnies there'd be gardening tools on the shelf
(too late, some are already out), and then Mother’s day coffee cups and suntan lotion, followed by
back-to-school supplies, Hallowe’en candy, and then — oh no, it’s happening too fast — stop me
— a partridge in a pear tree — arrrrrrrgh!
Sorry. I was almost run down by Hallmark thoughts and retail wishes. They’re gone now. We
can talk rationally.

ele tad
a ae
Loe

The attack was caused by flashbacks of Christmases
past. It’s stress built up from having a mother who is
always ready for Christmas. Mom has nearly all the

Christmas 1992 presents bought, wrapped and tagged.

The Way I S ee I ft And then there’s my perfect sister Kathy. Kathy just

| finished eight hand-made, intricately-stitched heirloom
— tree ornaments, and will begin addressing Christmas
cards next week. Myself, I’m still getting ready for last

Hallowe'en. :  §

Mom also has every birthday card she'll need for this
year, tucked into her address-book/calendar/coupon-
holder/notebook. Kathy’s already hidden the Easter eggs,
stocked up on back-to-school pencils and has miscel-
laneous gifts filed under the bed to last until Father’s
Day, 1997. Under my bed, I find two overdue library

- books, a green sock and a free-form dust-bunny sculpture.

Not that Mom hasn’t tried to spark a little organiz-
ation in me. She once gave me an address-
book/calendar/coupon-holder/notebook, back in ’86, I think

. it was. I found it behind the freezer last week, when I
= was looking for my tax receipts.

. | by Stephanie Wiebe But I'm getting better. There’s a note on my calendar,
scribbled across the month of July. "Start Christmas’, it
says, followed by three exclamation points. It’s not really

. like me to use exclamation points, particularly in July.
“Exclamation points imply an bubbly enthusiasm not typical of me, particularly when it’s hot and
I just want to laze around.

Despite the insincere bubbly enthusiasm, I know what I'll really do when I reach July and see
that note. I’ll lean back in the chaise lounge and sip iced tea, as I consider how Christmas-
organized I might become in August. Well, maybe September. Actually, October should be early
enough — there’s really no reason to rush,

Procrastination? I think not. Perhaps I merely have the foresight to realize what can happen
between now and Christmas. Mom and Kathy don’t. They’re pretty sure that December 25th will
arrive 287 days from now, I, on the other hand, realistically consider the possibility that the
government might change Christmas to another day, a more convenient day, like January 15th,
Or. I might win the lottery and then want to show more generosity than I would’ve at this
financially low time. Or the world could explode and we'd all be dead, floating around in space by
November. And Mom and Kathy would have wasted all that time and energy on Christmas.

Not me. And the next time those vicious white bunnies on the store shelves attack, I won't
submit to the holiday panic. I'll fight back. I'll smack ’em right in the kisser with my Hallowe'en
sparkler.

Terrace Review — March 13, 1992