It was NOT one of those moments when your life flashes before your eyes. Those cinematic moments when all images and memories dramatically play out in your mind in a fraction of a second. No, there wasn’t time for that. Rather, this was one of those near-death experiences when all you recognize is the sound of your own cursing, the feeling of weightlessness as you desperately try to regain your balance and the knowledge that you will definitely make national news if you expire while carrying a box of Christmas decorations down the stairs.
When did decorating for Christmas become so dangerous?!?
“I told you to be careful because there was stuff at the bottom of the stairs,” my wife told me, after remarking at how masterfully I saved myself (even if I did wet my pants.)
“Yeah, but I thought that meant don’t crush the baby Jesus in the manger or step on some glass ornaments. Next time try, ‘There are lots of boxes and you probably will die if you trip on them.’”
“Oh,” she said. “I thought that was kind of implied.”
For some reason, Christmas decorating always feels treacherous. The Christmas tree stand has a steel spike sharpened to such a point that it looks like it should be used to fight zombies. All year it threatens to fall on me when I go into the shed, and when I finally take it out for Christmas, I leave it lying around haphazardly. That way if I nearly tumble off the side of the stairs, I have at least a 1-in-4 shot I’ll impale myself on it … and end up on national news.
“A man in St. Augustine, Fla., was speared by a Christmas tree stand that is normally used to fight zombies, all while trying to avoid the baby Jesus.”
The problem is I try to do all the hauling myself and don’t ask for help … until after the paramedics arrive. Take getting the boxes down out of the attic: The sheer number and weight of our Christmas decoration boxes would tax the world’s largest ports. But I get it in my mind that I can carry them down out of the crowded attic on rickety foldup stairs … TWO-AT-A-TIME!!!
“Do you need some help?” my wife calls up, and I’m partially offended because she has the phone and has already pre-dialed “911.” Even the dog has come to stare with a look on her face that screams: “Oh man, daddy gonna’ die!!!”
“No, no. I’m fine,” I say. “I just needed to extract my underwear from the nail it got caught on, and regain my composure after tripping on that bag of toddler shoes that our daughter might someday decide to wear as … what?!? … earrings!”
Somehow we managed with no injuries, broken bones or electrocutions this year, and our house looks like a holiday wonderland. Hooray! And that gives me a month of peace and solitude to enjoy the beautiful spectacle … all before the scary process of getting it back in the attic.