It’s tough getting through the Christmas eating season

Christmas is over and 2009 is just hours away. I don’t know about you, but I’m glad. Glad, glad, glad. Don’t get me wrong, I love the holidays, but they’re killing me.

One Christmas I could handle, but this year—by the time you read this—I’ll have had five. I blame my big, fat, Catholic family. There are just too many of us.

My first Christmas—the only one that’s totally stress-free—comes Christmas Day. The Lovely Mrs. Taylor and I wake up late (we can do this now that the kids are grown and out of the house). Mrs. T bakes cinnamon rolls while I drink coffee. We eat the cinnamon rolls and open our presents while “A Christmas Story” plays silently on the television and the gas fireplace pretends to warm the living room.

Later, we go out for Chinese.

That’s it. Simple. Peaceful. Perfect.

The next day, the kids and grandkids come by for our annual Mexican Christmas. We’re not Mexican, but by this time the kids—who have spent the previous two days with various in-laws and step-parents eating turkey and ham—are ready for something different.

The house fills with the sublime chaos of overexcited children hopped up on a potent mix of candy canes, cookies and Mrs. Taylor’s homemade fudge. Something usually gets broken, but who cares?

Tacos are eaten, presents are opened, batteries are installed, Legos are chewed into unrecognizable lumps by the dog, and a good time is had by all.

By the time everyone leaves, I am exhausted, stuffed with refried beans, and happy.

The next day, we gather at my in-law’s home for The Lovely Mrs. Taylor’s family’s family Christmas. My mother-in-law is a magnificent cook, and we all enjoy a “traditional” Christmas feast, usually to shameful excess.

Presents are again exchanged and opened. More food is eaten. Mrs. Taylor packs up a few leftovers for consumption in front of the television later that evening and we somehow manage to waddle out the door and squeeze into the car for the drive home.

The next day, we again go to the in-law’s house, this time for Christmas with the members of the family who come in from out of town and couldn’t be there the day before. We eat. We open more presents. We eat again.

Mrs. Taylor operates the fork lift now required to move me from the sofa to the car and back home again.

The next day, I visit my folks’ to exchange presents with them. They insist on feeding me because I’m “looking a little thin.”

I am not looking thin, nor have I looked anything like thin since the early 1980s, but telling them this does no good.

The next day is New Year’s Eve. Looking for all the world like a manatee with a thyroid condition, I don my black suit and accompany Mrs. Taylor to a New Year’s Eve party where—you guessed it—we eat.

The sound of bells ringing in the New Year is obscured by the squeal of my belt stretching beyond the manufacturer’s recommended tolerances.

I’ll be stopping by the gym Monday to renew my membership. I have 51 weeks until next Christmas’ eating season begins again. By then, if I work real hard, I should just about be back to my weight of seven days ago.


Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.