That the impending holidays should be the catalytic force behind a national plague of depression that borders on the epidemic is the very essence, if not the definition itself, of irony, because the holidays are, if nothing else, a celebration.  The concept of irony is almost impossible to succinctly define on the fly (try it out loud sometime; notice how you sound like presidential candidate in the midst of a televised debate), but three words just may suffice: “’tis the season.”  To further jack up the irony quotient here, the pundits at the National Office of Acronyms – Medical Division, have dubbed this propensity to sulk as the fourth calendar quarter runs down as “SAD” – Seasonal Affective Disorder.  This is a little like dubbing tax season as “SUCKS,” but nonetheless, far more of us than we care to notice face the season with all the enthusiasm of a forthcoming root canal.  Even that guy ringing the bell in front of the department store looks pissed off.

            Here’s why.  If folklore and eavesdropping at the office water-cooler is to be believed, someone at the family holiday table will be drunk, someone will have not forgiven someone else, more than a few won’t really want to be there, egos and agenda will run rampant, resentment fills the air like the scent of Uncle Frank’s breath, and chances are the gravy will taste like crank case oil, but with too much salt.  This year we can multiply all this drama by a factor of 700 billion, which translates to the need for a second mortgage to finance the holiday gifting obligation, which in the midst of today’s credit nightmare just ain’t gonna happen.  The whole thing will end up like a Groundhog’s Day reprise of Bill Murray proportions, but without the laughs.

            Of course, if you’re an executive from a bailed out bank, you can buy the whole clan a fleet of new Audis and break your holiday bread down in Cabo.  Just be sure it happens before your Congressional hearing.

            Our expectations, both hopeful and cynical, are part of the problem.  How we face the prospect of squaring off with family during the holidays defines the landscape of its bleak and inevitably reality.  The degree to which our expectations collide with our hopes is the measure of our resultant anxiety, and because we tend to go to one of two extremes – it will either be a temporary trip to hell itself, complete with pitchfork-wielding kin tormenting you with words and mannerisms laden with hidden meaning, or it will be different this year, because it’s the holidays, after all, and we’re all a little older and wiser – we stand about as much chance of a positive experience as actually enjoying a hunting trip with Dick Cheney.  Sanity resides in arriving with a clear assessment of the players, a spanking new compliment of emotional body armor (both candidates voted against it, so buy your own), and a few tools that will help you rise above the obligatory ritual of it all.

            First, choose not to engage.  In other words, be nice.  If you can reside behind a transparent wall of acceptance of the inevitable, if you can elect not to engage, and if you can observe the proceedings with the detached cool of a researcher watching video of a pack of hyena’s attacking a cameraman, then you just might emerge with your blood pressure in tact.  The fact is, the transpired year will not have changed the world view of your clan – the only factor you can change in this equation is you – and once you realize that they really are, after all, entitled to their opinion, you will have qualified for a license to relax.  Have another chicken wing and just go with the flow.

            Of course, there are more pragmatic strategies to emerge from the fog of the holidays with your sanity in tact.  If you are hosting the feast, make sure to create firm arrival and departure times, with a reasonably minimal window in between.  Fill the emotionally-laden space of your time together with specific activities (kids are wonderful foot soldiers in this battle front) such as charades (avoid family themes, such as “who still owes me three grand?”), monopoly and scrap booking.  Never let a drunk person do the toast.  Avoid relying on the television – this is like sending hungry troops into battle armed with jagged soup spoons – and try to keep the genders mixed.  Sending the guys off to the family room to watch football (notice how quiet things are at first) while the women tend to all things preparatory not only offends the sensibilities of anyone with a whiff of 21^st century misogynistic reality, it’s a recipe for impending hostility fueled by Budweiser and merlot. 

            Nobody says you have to actually like your relatives, whom you didn’t have the opportunity to choose.  The only thing you really have to do is show up, and once you step into that void the road separates and you must choose: you can engage, you can resume the noise from last year with all the seamless fluidity of hitting the Resume Play button, or you can be different this year.  You can be tolerant, you can be pleasantly aloof, you can be untouchable.  And if you’re really into that 21^st century evolution thing, you could even be open, compassionate, forgiving and even engaging in a way the sidesteps the landmines of the past. 

Your family will find it ironic (heck, they can’t define it any better than you can), but you just might find it refreshing.  And all of you just might, as a consequence, enjoy the holidays after all.

© Harrison Monarth 2009

This article by Harrison Monarth was originally published in Denver Magazine