In my house, my wife is the Christmas lady. Everything this holiday entails: music, lights, decorations, presents. She’s all in, every year, and she loves it.
I’m more of a Halloween man, myself. Give me rolling fog on a spooky night while you’re holed up in a creepy old house and I’m a happy camper. That probably makes me the darker half of our marriage, but for whatever reason it seems to work.
That being said, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my wife’s enthusiasm always manages to rub off on me. I may start December in full-on Grinch mode, but by the end of the second week, I’m playing Christmas music and asking about this year’s family ornament.
I think what makes my wife’s holiday spirit so infectious is the sheer joy she gets from shopping for others. She’s one of those weird people who spend more time thinking about the receiver of the gift than the gift itself.
I don’t possess this trait. Nor do I fully understand it.