I’ve never gone without a tree this time of year. My mom handled the specifics when I was a kid, then I inherited a small fake tree that graced a few of my apartments over the years. Even my first year in Chicago, when I was sure I wouldn’t be able to get a tree due to logistics, Scott heroically trudged down to the Walgreen’s parking lot and carried my little three-footer six blocks to my apartment.
This year, I was sure, would be my first without one. Scott says I think that every year, but it’s not true. What I DO think every year is that we won’t get one early enough for me Â— and that ends up being the case. But this year I just couldn’t see how we’d find a free evening and how we’d drag little Dev along in the cold, cold night to pick one out. I like things easy. And the tree lot that usually sets up three blocks from our house never materialized. What was I to do?
Luckily I spied a sign at a church only four blocks away. Last night I jumped in the car and drove over. There were only about six trees out for inspection. The guy helped me choose one that was in pretty good shape. It seemed a nice size for our house and, happily, didn’t seem very big. (A good thing since I’ve always had a soft spot for Charlie Brown trees.) So I wrote him a check and told him my husband would be back in minutes to haul it home.
Scott, begrudgingly I think, took the sheet, twine and scissors I handed to him and went to get the tree. When he returned home and began dragging it into the house, he started muttering about me choosing such big trees. Whatever, I thought. It’s not big. It’s a nice little tree.
Well, a girl can be wrong, can’t she? I picked out a fat, bushy tree that’s also rather tall. It looks enormous in our living room. It is the antithesis of my beloved Charlie Brown tree. And now I have to actually decorate it. Heh. I only have myself to blame for this one.