Coonridge Digest: Bedraggled, befuddled, and noel-ed to a frazzle?

Greetings from the Ridge.
You’ve been there. The last 20 minutes were an all-out battle for a parking space, and you ended up closer to home than to the store. 
Before you hit the doors the Christmas music engulfed you like a swarm of eggnog-infested gnats, and by the time you hit the first shopping aisle you were mad.
“Away in a manger, no crib for his bed,” is blaring as you pass the liquor department while “Joy to the World” fills the underwear section. You peek into the toy department to check the lead deposits building up on the Barbies, and you remember this morning’s news telling you that the bulk of this year’s Christmas gifts are made overseas.
Your fellow shoppers need a Dale Carnegie course in human decency, and you’ve twice been bumped by a toddler playing kamikaze with his mommy’s shopping cart. You stop dead in your tracks and shout, “Dear God in Heaven! I’m not only surrounded by the problem! I’m part of it!”
The ghost of Cassius whispers into your right ear, “The fault, dear Freida, is not in our stars, but in ourselves?” while Pogo murmurs into the left, “We have met the enemy and he is us.”
I’ve yet to meet a disgusted, disheartened participant in this mess we call Christmas who wasn’t at least a part of the reason for the disgust and disheartenment. We grouse, we complain, we yearn for the days that really never were, and then we go right about our business of being a part of the problem.
A suggestion – don’t retreat. Attack. Muster up all the goodwill you can show/say/fake and let ‘er rip, in the words of Al Jolson, “…with all the love that’s in ya.”
Tell yourself that the battle with this problem is being fought way over our heads, so our business is to gain ground on the… well, on the ground. Start with the lady at the check-out register. I’d take a wild guess and speculate that she doesn’t own this store, she has no stock in pre-Christmas profits, and that when she gets off work tonight she’ll have to struggle through the battlefield you’ve just conquered.
She’ll then go home to her three kids and fix supper. This mess we call Christmas is not her fault. Show a little kindness. She’s too tired to make eye-contact? Then you do it. You’re a big boy/ girl.
The Advent Attack, Phase Two: At the risk of being shunned a labeled and loony, talk to somebody. A store full of Christmas shoppers is a prime specimen of our isolated society – lots of noise and little communication. You’re in a line, three women have given birth ahead of you while waiting, and you’re stuck. So talk. Talk to anybody. Start with a pleasant smile that tells your new friend you’re not a mugger, molester, mauler, or Soviet mole, and simply ask them how they’re getting along with their Christmas preparations. You’ll get a weary sigh, a little unburdening, and practically no new information, but you will have connected. It could very well be the emotional highlight of your day and hers.
Phase Three: Step up your giving. Yes, I know this goes against all the expert advice and slams head-long into the coaxing of Dr. Phil and the self-help books, but when you feel like you just can’t give any more of yourself, give more. I’ve got a secret: if you find yourself in this state of blown-out benevolence, chances are that you were born to give. I’ll bet with some assuredness that you were raised by compassionate people and that you are unhappiest when you’re not absolutely spending yourself 24-7 for others. So… give more. When you dust off the nativity scene and put it on the living room table, you’ll notice that there is a precedent for such unreasonable generosity.
Phase Four: …and although this seems a contradiction of Phase Three, it isn’t. It’s simply this: Simplify. Work like heck for others, but take it easy on yourself. Nobody – and I apologize for this – nobody comes to your house on Christmas Day because you mashed your own potatoes. 
Sorry. They came for you. The intricate care that you give to your Christmas decorations will go largely unnoticed in the spark and spangle of the holidays. Do enough to make yourself happy, but beyond that, nobody’s going to notice.  Play a little game with yourself: 
“Let’s see, I have an hour. Which will make me feel better — dusting each little chicken feather on our traditional tree angel’s wings, or taking these canned goods down to the food kitchen?” If you tell yourself you have time to do both, you’re cheating. The idea of a baby being born in a stable built for sheep and donkeys is a relatively uncomplicated thing. Don’t mess it up with your preparations.
Bedraggled, befuddled, and noel-ed to a frazzle? Attack!
You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.