I told myself I wouldn’t do this.
I said I’d simply let Christmas pass from my blog without acknowledgement. Just pretend it didn’t exist since the only Christmas topics I could think of were gripes. Like self-righteous gripes about the commercialization of Christmas. Christianly gripes about Christ being excised from X-mas. Right-wing gripes about politically correct “happy holidays” and our overly sensitive culture of watered down non-offensive bullcrap everything (Happy Hanukkah, and quit being pansies, you pansies). Sentimental gripes about how we’re forgetting the “true meaning” of Christmas. Anxious gripes about gift pressure: who to include, what to get and how I really can’t afford to buy gifts this year anyway (aren’t hugs enough?). Uncomprehending gripes about why generation after generation takes great pains to perpetuate the lie of Santa Claus to their spongy children. Academic gripes about how December 25th isn’t even Jesus’s real birthday, the date of which scholars guesstimate to be in a totally different season (that makes for a moving read on the eve of Christmas Eve. Not.).
But no, this Scrooge isn’t going to write about any of those things. Instead, I will write about bacon.
What’s bacon got to do with Christmas? This year, for me, pretty much everything.
It started as any ordinary day. I woke up before the birds, wrote a compelling dissertation on the inherent philosophical contradictions of Stephen Hawking’s The Grand Design, arrived at work fifteen minutes early, proceeded to do my job with commitment and vigor, was profusely thanked for my efforts, and then someone approached me at the coffee machine to tell me I have a really nice butt. You know, the usual. After work, I drove blissfully home without once getting irritated. Still, you know, the usual. Walking through the door at home, I was greeted by my aunt and uncle and was pleasantly surprised to see my wonderful cousins greeting me as well. Beside them sitting motionless, wide-eyed, mouth agape, was something unusual.
It was the trophy of a white elephant my aunt and uncle had attended, and although it did not belong to me, it had on me an inexplicable, magnetic pull. And those eyes – those glossy eyes drew me into the depths of its unconventional, yet comforting soul. We all squeezed the “press me” button over and over, and every time its mechanically animated mouth announced a care-free, confident “I’m Bacon.”
As the night drew to a close and it was time to go to bed, I kind of just…took him with me. I didn’t plan on giving him back. (I asked the owners a couple days later, of course, and they were fine with it. Which is all the more reason why I should have him, because I would care if someone stole him like that). Cuddling with Bacon, I began to doze. Suddenly, this year’s winter didn’t seem so bad. We had just met, and already Bacon had a way of making me feel like everything was going to be alright.
The message on his tag could not be truer: “Soft and snuggly with big giant eyes, My First Bacon is both friendly and reliable, just like actual bacon. Squeeze him and he says, ‘I’m Bacon!,’ no matter what the situation, reminding children that whatever happens in life, they should be true to themselves and always be proud of who they are.” Now, compare that message with songs we sing about Satan Santa: “Oooh you better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout I’m telling you why, Santa Claus is comiiiing to toooown!” What a compassionless jerk! He wants us to stuff all our negative emotions before he shows up to grace us mortals with his jolly presence/ts! But Bacon? Bacon is safe with my full spectrum of crap, pouting and tears and all. He is SO much better than Santa Claus. And hey, he’s red and white, too! How seasonal!
I know all of this seems like a sarcastic dramatization, but it isn’t. It really isn’t. I don’t know what it is! I’m emotionally attached! I LOVE this thing. I’m a full-grown woman (vertically) and I sleep with it! SLEEP with it! Some people have teddy bears. Or cats, or dogs, or ducks, or some other type of stuffed animal. Some have traded them for pillows in an attempt to be more grown up (don’t lie to me – you didn’t really want to throw Fluffy away and that pillow doesn’t do anything for you). Me? I have Bacon. I’m neither too cool for him nor do I think we need “help.” We have a connection, and that’s important to have with people things. Just thinking about squeezing his button in the middle of the night makes me giggle inside. And out.
So simple. So true. So Bacon. It’s what’s for Christmas.
Have a merry one, everybody <3.
I’m feeling accomplished. I wrote a Christmas post and didn’t fall into the trap of the oh-so common Christmastime gripes (yet I still squeezed most of them in in a casually-mention-but-don’t-dwell-on type of way. Like how in a conversation with your mother she might passingly point out one of your personal failings. It’s sneaky, so you’re not sure whether to retort or stick with the main subject.).