Last night, I braved the Rideau Centre, the epicentre of what I would like to call Christmas stupidity. My intent, to secure Christmas decorations from The Bay for our first Christmas Tree, and perhaps a small amount of gift shopping.
Beyond the decorations, which really couldn't wait (it is December 17th after all)
I don't know what in my being drove me out on a snowy night. Perhaps I had not seen enough of the worst of human behaviour last weekend when (in what can only be described as sheer lunacy)I went to the Eaton Centre on Saturday morning. Oh, that was a treat! Nothing like pushing and shoving and swearing and bad escalator etiquette to really warm your heart during this festive time of year.
What really eats at me, though, is how at a time of year when we are supposed to be filled with joy, friendship and the true meaning of life, people are so unbelievably rude. In this rush to accomplish all of their Christmas tasks, they push past people - old people, little people, pregnant people - singularly focused on finding that perfect gift. You know the one that will make them the Hero of Christmas. Ironically, and I am hardly the first person to observe or comment on this, their behaviour does everything but exemplify the meaning of Christmas. In a season that is supposed to be about others, they end up focused only on themselves and what they need to accomplish.
While I realize the chances of people changing their behaviour are about as good as Sarah Palin earning a doctorate from Harvard, I do have to make one Christmas plea.
Be kind to the retail staff. Seriously.
I've witnessed some pretty abysmal behaviour in my last two trips in to the apocalyptic chaos that is the metropolitan shopping mall.
I won't recount it because it doesn't deserve it, but I must say it sickened me.
When you get to a cash register, sit down at a restaurant, walk in to a spa or a salon, a liquor store or a grocery store, remember this:
The person standing in front of you didn't put all of the pressure on you to find a perfect gift for everyone you know. They're not responsible for the list you put in front of yourself, the four hours you've spent in the shopping mall without lunch, the fact that you have to make gluten-free stuffing because of cousin Jimmy's allergy or the fact that you need to find a small bottle of cooking sherry so that Aunt Doris doesn't drink what's left over from the trifle you intend to make.
In short, they are not responsible for your ridiculous Christmas expectations.
They are, however, working for the lowest wage in the country, during what is arguably the retail sector's busiest time of year. They are also, for the most part, trying to help you achieve your ridiculous Christmas expectations. And, with a few exceptions, they're doing it cheerfully, despite the fact that they have likely been standing on their feet for the same amount of time you've been in the mall and they'll likely be there long after you leave. When you are at home on Christmas Eve with your family - they'll be at work oh, and I almost forgot, they have the added benefit of getting to work on Boxing Day, which is, well..just like taking a vacation in Bora Bora.
I think you get the point. The amazing thing is, when you show just a smidge of kindness and holiday spirit to the person in front of you, it becomes infectious.
Try it some time, and see how many people around you start to smile, including the clerk, waitress or cashier. You might even start to feel better yourself - and who knows, maybe even become filled with the true meaning of Christmas.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
In defense of hoarding
I am, in the eyes of my loving boyfriend, an inveterate hoarder. I keep things in our tiny one bedroom apartment that he sees no use for. Stowed away in drawers, tucked up high in cupboards, these seemingly insignificant items, are the very bane of his existence. And, every so often he implores me to divest myself of these items in an attempt to balance our yin and yang or some other cosmic force he feels is out of whack when I accumulate too much of this "worthless" junk.
In fairness to him, there are things I do not need to keep, like some small tag from a piece of clothing I bought that I kept because I thought it was pretty or Christmas cards from people I worked with before I even met him, and with whom I no longer speak.
I know it comes from a place of love and a desire to help me be a more organized and efficient person, so I can't fault him for it. But it has got me thinking about why we hang on to the things that we do - an old jean jacket that is torn and frayed, a ticket stub from a train ride in Ireland, a newspaper clipping from years ago, Fisher Price toys etched with the dirt and wear of several generations of children or a mitten from a snow suit long since given away to another child.
Why do we feel the need to keep these things, and more importantly, why do we need to keep them close to us? What is it in us that is unable to let go of these things and what is it in us that prompts us to keep them in the first place?
We keep them, I think, because ultimately they connect us to who we are and where we have been. We keep them because they become symbols of times, places or events that held great meaning for us. We keep them because when we lose sight of ourselves, they become veritable touchstones of who we fundamentally are - and this in turn helps to ground us and guide us to where we are going.
These things, which may mean nothing to others become a veritable external hard drive for our memories, which these days are filled with an ever increasing volume of information, much of it useless. When we stumble on one of these things unexpectedly, when cleaning or searching for some other useful item, it becomes like a little gift to ourselves - a little teleport to a time or place that made our heart joyous.
Sometimes, as in the case of my grandmother who lovingly wrapped up the aforementioned mitten atop my birthday present last year, we get to share these items with others, as a way to show them how important and meaningful their presence in our life is.
So, I think I'll hang on to the old jean jacket, though I've since bought a new one, the hole in the elbow, has a story that I don't want to forget. That ticket stub from Ireland isn't going anywhere either and nor is the memory of the last vacation I took with two of my closest friends.
And, though I don't expect my boyfriend to curtail his filming of bi-annual episodes of "clean sweep" in our apartment, I do expect that one day, in the midst of a divesting frenzy, he'll stumble across the ticket from the first time he took me to the National Gallery and, even if only for a moment, he'll understand.
In fairness to him, there are things I do not need to keep, like some small tag from a piece of clothing I bought that I kept because I thought it was pretty or Christmas cards from people I worked with before I even met him, and with whom I no longer speak.
I know it comes from a place of love and a desire to help me be a more organized and efficient person, so I can't fault him for it. But it has got me thinking about why we hang on to the things that we do - an old jean jacket that is torn and frayed, a ticket stub from a train ride in Ireland, a newspaper clipping from years ago, Fisher Price toys etched with the dirt and wear of several generations of children or a mitten from a snow suit long since given away to another child.
Why do we feel the need to keep these things, and more importantly, why do we need to keep them close to us? What is it in us that is unable to let go of these things and what is it in us that prompts us to keep them in the first place?
We keep them, I think, because ultimately they connect us to who we are and where we have been. We keep them because they become symbols of times, places or events that held great meaning for us. We keep them because when we lose sight of ourselves, they become veritable touchstones of who we fundamentally are - and this in turn helps to ground us and guide us to where we are going.
These things, which may mean nothing to others become a veritable external hard drive for our memories, which these days are filled with an ever increasing volume of information, much of it useless. When we stumble on one of these things unexpectedly, when cleaning or searching for some other useful item, it becomes like a little gift to ourselves - a little teleport to a time or place that made our heart joyous.
Sometimes, as in the case of my grandmother who lovingly wrapped up the aforementioned mitten atop my birthday present last year, we get to share these items with others, as a way to show them how important and meaningful their presence in our life is.
So, I think I'll hang on to the old jean jacket, though I've since bought a new one, the hole in the elbow, has a story that I don't want to forget. That ticket stub from Ireland isn't going anywhere either and nor is the memory of the last vacation I took with two of my closest friends.
And, though I don't expect my boyfriend to curtail his filming of bi-annual episodes of "clean sweep" in our apartment, I do expect that one day, in the midst of a divesting frenzy, he'll stumble across the ticket from the first time he took me to the National Gallery and, even if only for a moment, he'll understand.
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