O (Naked) Christmas Tree

The other night Tiffany and I went to get our Christmas tree.

This is a big event. We don't have a house to string lights on or a staircase to drape garland over. After the tree, the most extravagant decorating we do is to put a Santa Claus toilet lid cover on our toilet. My grandmother sent us the cover, which is literally Santa Claus' face, and we like it because it's funny and also it keeps the seat warm. Anyway, you would think that, given the prominent role the tree plays in our holiday-ing, we would put a lot of care and time into the decision of which tree to buy.

You'd be wrong.

But that's not because we don't care. In fact, it's because one of us cares so much, gets so excited, that she cannot even take the time to consider all the trees on the lot and rushes to the first tree she sees. That one is Tiffany. I pointed this out to her last year after we purchased our tree. We had barely stepped onto the vacant lot where a non-profit organization sets up its tree-selling operation when Tiffany, unable to control herself, rushed to the tree she wanted (the first one she saw) without even a "how-do-you-do" to the other trees:

"How about this one?" she cried.

Seeing her face, I could hardly refuse. I took a deep (quick) breath of the fresh Christmas tree smell and then we paid for our tree and left.

This year, we took a more measured approach. To show how capable she was of taking her time, Tiffany diverted us away from the section of trees that met our height and size requirements (short and tiny) and led us around the lot, pointing out massive trees the size of the ones her family used to have. Only after our lap did we return to the section of small trees and proceed to ponder them.

"Which one?" I asked.

"I know, which one," she answered, smugly. "And I know which one you picked too."

I doubted that. When I was little, my mom bought my brother and me a book about how all the imperfect Christmas trees never get chosen and how they're only imperfect because they offered their branches and needles as shelter and food to forest animals (I get a lump in my throat just thinking about it!). Since then, I can't bear to buy a tree without any blemishes.

"This is the one I want," I said, trailing my fingers over the branches of a perfectly imperfect tree.

"That one!? It's naked!" she cried, pointing to the wide gap between its top and lower branches.

We compromised on a half-naked tree. At the apartment, we nestled our tree in the place of honor in front of our biggest window, twenty feet from the bathroom and Santa Claus' face.