Hi, I’m Katie Sisneros, and I’m an atheist. I’m pretty vocal about this, so if you’re among my group of friends and family that might be reading this (hi, mom), then you probably already knew that. Oxymoronically, you probably also know that I turn into a giggly bouncing puddle of squeals once Thanksgiving’s over and I can legally start thinking about Christmas.

“But wait!” you may cry, leaping to my defense, “That’s not oxymoronic! Christians just stole the pagan Roman solar holiday!” Except that I don’t celebrate Dies Natalis Solis Invicti, I celebrate Christmas. Like, hardcore. No, Josh of Nazareth wasn’t born on December 25^th. The Gregorian calendar didn’t even exist yet. But I am, for all intents and purposes, celebrating the salvation of my non-existent soul by a man who I don’t believe was the Messiah and who was born of a woman who I definitely do not believe was immaculately conceived. Merry Christmas, everybody!

To be perfectly frank, I don’t care. I’m willing to accept the cognitive dissonance that is the foundation of my celebration of Christmas if it means I get to enjoy all the awesome totally non-religious shit that comes along with the holiday. Including:

Presents, both giving and getting. I’m at the point in my life where practical Christmas gifts are just as welcome, if not more welcome, than fun things like books or electronics or clothes. I’ve explained my theories on this previously. And even though I understand that the tradition of gift giving for the holidays has turned into a gross commercialized monstrosity of whatever it was in, I don’t know, Victorian England when people gave each other gifts like buckets of nails, or coupons for half-off a leeching session at the local barber cum surgeons, or a freshly shorn sheep, I still derive a ridiculous amount of joy from buying people I love things I think they’ll like and then fretting about it for a month, worrying they’ll hate it.

Christmas music. The Friday after Thanksgiving (after I’ve woken up after a nice long night of sleep because no thank you, Black Friday) the Christmas music starts, and doesn’t stop until about 3 p.m. on Christmas day. At that point, it’s like someone turned a switch in my brain that makes Christmas music the most horrendous aural experience possible, and I can’t fathom listening to it anymore. But prior to that, bring on the sleigh bells, bitches! My family staple for as long as I can remember has been Aaron Neville’s Soulful Christmas album, but I’m sort of a Christmas music slut; I’ll take whatever I can get when I can get it. What’s that? Michael Bublé has a new holiday album? I WILL DEVOUR IT LIKE A HUNGRY CHRISTMAS LION. Oh? Kim Kardashian audio recorded herself inhaling fourteen pounds of refried black beans and farting a ten minute rendition of O Tannenbaum into a microphone? Put that shit on my iPhone, yo. I’ll merrily jam out to it with the biggest of grins on my face.

Decorating. I used to be a militant commander of the Christmas decorating plans at my mom’s house in junior high and high school. After compiling a detailed multi-room minute-by-minute agenda printed on high-quality glossy printer paper, I would tether my little sisters to the base of the Christmas tree to keep them out of my goddamn way and set to work cheerifying the shit out of my house. Actually that’s mostly un-true; my little sisters helped decorate the tree, and I would just sigh passive-aggressively about their poor choice of ornament placement every time their grimy little fingers got near the branches. Luckily for everybody in my life right now, especially my poor anxiety-ridden dog, I’ve chilled out considerably and now get a sincere amount of relaxation and joy out of putting A Charlie Brown Christmas on the TV, getting drunk off eggnog and brandy, and putting up all the decorations that I stole out of my mom’s attic.

Seeing my family. Call me Sappy McSapperson, but I’ve lived on my own for enough years now that going home and seeing mom and the sisters is legitimately exciting. Mother is her special brand of Midwestern excited/anxious/stressed/jovial, I attack the siblings with unwarranted cuddle blitzkriegs whenever we’re in the same room together, and mom’s dude-friend Gary drinks beers and sings loudly to Neil Diamond’s Christmas album. It’s the one time of year that we manage to forget how fucked up we all are.

HOLIDAY. FUCKING. BREAK. As a professional student with at least four more years of higher education to look forward to[1], Christmas time always signifies the beginning of one glorious month off school, during which I can actually get shit done like school work. As the capstone on the last two weeks of the semester (and by that I mean, right now), during which my anxiety level at having to write sixty pages of heavily researched seminar papers is so high it’s a wonder I don’t spontaneously combust, Christmas and the subsequent three week break are just about the most beautiful goddamn thing there ever was.

Thank you, fake imaginary Arab baby Jesus, for making it all happen.

–Katie Sisneros

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