Bah, humbug

Well, here we are again, the last three days before December 25th. During the run-up to this festive occasion, every member of the tribe has been sick with a flu variation that seizes hold of the stomach and lower digestive tract with ramifications that are unpleasant both to experience and to relate.

It does take the edge off one's desire to celebrate a season notorious for egregious menus and involuntary gluttony. And that's a good thing. But the whole notion that somehow the meal must go on, despite the fact that the preparer herself is a walking virus farm is perhaps worthy of re-examination.

Far better, it seems to me, to celebrate the fact that this season offers the gift of about four days in a row off work. This is time that can be spent, sick or not, in allowing the body to relax from the daily grind of getting up at an unnatural hour to satisfy the demands of the workplace. Modest reason though it may be, the gift of time is the one that universally returns the most benefits.

Two-day weekends are only a partial luxury, given that the first day is barely long enough to spin down from the weekly trance, and the second is over too soon. Sunday night is not the best night for sleep, because the mind ramps up to deal with the upcoming fresh and/or unfinished business of the week at hand. Saturday, for those of us who are fortunate enough not to have to work it, is ideal because it begins without the tyranny of the alarm clock, and ends with the promise of yet another day devoid of the same.

Thus, a gift of four mornings without a rude awakening is a rare treasure. Why spoil it by eating egregiously and indulging in seasonal gluttony? Why mess it up by slaving for the better part of a day over a massive menu that will end up in overconsumption and discomfort, with the attenuated aftermath of same-tasting leftover food that must be dealt with in the ensuing days?

Back in the day, consumption meant one thing: tuberculosis. Now it means consumerism. Which disease is more destructive?