Yesterday was President's Day. By my count that means it's been 59 days since Christmas came--and went.
"Went" is the key operative word here. As in "Over." "Kaput." "Finis."
And yet, as I drive the five or so miles to and from work, the suburban streets are lined with houses amazingly ablaze with holiday lights. There are dozens of doors decked with dead wreaths. And front yards still strewn with the sad remains of inflatable Santas or giant plastic creche figures, some toppled sideways and half-submerged in snow.
Call me crazy, but seriously--what's up with that? Has the endless onslaught of wintry weather duped people into thinking it's still December? Has light deprivation left everyone too depressed to get out there and take this stuff down? Or do they think that at this point they might as well leave it up, since Christmas will be here again before they know it?
All I know is this: there is nothing more depressing than the sight of a house sporting St. Patrick's Day shamrocks in the windows and surrounded by a fence strung with dried-up evergreen garland--punctuated with droopy red velvet bows.
Come on, people--waiting much longer could result in a head-on collision between Rudolph and the Easter Bunny. And we wouldn't want the kids to witness that--would we?