Oh Shitty Tree

It started with an idealistic girl wanting to put up a Christmas tree for her first Christmas married. She wanted it to be perfect. Just like she wanted Christmas to be perfect. In her mind, the perfection of this Christmas tree represented everything good and happy in her relationship. It was a manifestation of her love for him. She had her mom and his mom send their childhood ornaments. She imagined them decorating the tree together and it being a sparkly, pre-lit piece of perfection.

And then there was the reality. The tree is a sad little tree. The pre-strung lights aren’t well placed. The branches aren’t quite as full as she had hoped. The ornaments, while special, don’t quite fill it up. And she’s left with the reality of her manifestation being less than what she had hoped.

Reality bites.

The girl is less idealistic than she was a few hours ago. The reality of her tree isn’t the fairy-tale that she wanted it to be. She actually wanted to cry about the whole thing. Until her husband sat her down and told her that he knew his opinion probably didn’t matter, but that though he knew it was a sad tree, he liked it because he got to decorate it with her. It was the first time he had decorated a tree in years. He also wanted her to know that Christmas would be perfect because he would wake up next to her and that was the greatest gift he could ask for. It was the perfect thing for him to say.

Now, the Christmas tree is still a little sad, the lights are uneven, and their still aren’t quite enough ornaments. But she is reminded that though things might not be picture perfect, they are just the way they should be. She has her love with her and their love isn’t dependent on a pre-packaged tree. They could have no tree and it would still be enough. Her view on the tree went from it being a sign of her weaknesses to it being a symbol of the strength of her love for him and his for her.

What a perfect little tree it is after all.

~The Countess~

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About texancountess

I find myself in the calming roar of the sea, floating gently on the foam of the breaking waves. Blue. Green. Gray. The colors of the sea mark the boundaries of my soul. The tumbled glass finds its polish under the relentless pounding of the waves upon the shore. Thus am I. Rough transitioning to polish, refinement ever a process, finding my niche in the storms of life.
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