Here comes yet another inadequate Christmas.  You’d think that after so many years of somehow making it through the season, surprising children and grandchildren and yourself by making it somehow happen, it would become easier.  But it’s never easy.  It’s certainly not this year.  And I give up.  This year, I’m giving up.

Don’t worry.  This will not be another sappy Christmas story.  There are way too many of them.  I believe that if one can’t do a better job than Matthew or Luke or O. Henry, then one shouldn’t even try.

It’s just that one always wants to give and give and give to those he loves most.  And to do for those friends and friendly acquaintances a little bit – just enough to let them know they mean something to you.  It’s a bit disappointing to face yet another Christmas, knowing that you didn’t quite cut the mustard during yet another year past.  It’s downright depressing actually.

I never have much cared for Christmas.  Folks expect way too damned much of themselves this time of year.  Christmas is really depression’s incubator.  Depression thrives in the warm surroundings of unmet Christmas expectations.  You think fighting crowds at the mall or Wall-Mart is stressful?  It’s our fear of failure that makes it so.  Maybe you can’t afford the boots little Janie wants.  Maybe young Roy won’t get the Play Station game he’s been eyeing for months.  Maybe you made it to the mall two-minutes after they ran out of the Jordan sneakers son Tim wanted more than anything.  Even those with six-figure incomes can’t buy a present for Tim if it doesn’t exist.  It shouldn’t be this way.  Not during the most blessed and promising season of the year.

I have faced this season almost exactly the same way for most of the past 15 or 16 years.  Too much desire and not enough ability.  To give wrapped presents.  I pretty much have nothing.  But I survive.  And I do what I can.  Frankly, I’d rather be broke than to have all the money in the world and show up late for the unveiling of the limited supply of new Jordans.

They say that the best gift anyone can give is the gift of time.  I always understood that to mean one had to spend a few hours of quality time here or there with those on your gift list.  One Christmas, I even gave my son a sort of certificate, saying, “I will be all yours for one entire day to do for you whatever you want me to do.”  Or something like that.  Right now I am thinking that was one shallow gift.  In fact, he has yet to collect on it.

This year, I want to give a “gift of time” that has a more important meaning.  A deeper one.  I kind of feel like I do okay as a dad and granddad.  I believe my child and grandchildren would appreciate having me around for a few extra years.  But I don’t know if I can do it.  After all, I’ve decided to give up.  And I don’t know if I can survive this Christmas.  And I am sure I won’t survive long enough if I don’t do this gift.

So, I am just giving up.  I’ve had it.  I’m turning my back on all this crap and hoping and praying for a better life.  Somewhere.  Somehow.  I hope my family and loved ones understand and appreciate my sacrifice.

I just cannot do it any longer.  I quit.  Smoking that is.  I am turning my back on tobacco, once and for all.  I will quit smoking.  That is my one and only gift to the ones I love most.  No bows.  But no smoke either.

I have to tell you, though, right now I am mourning the loss of Salems.  I just hope my son doesn’t give me a carton of menthols for Christmas.  Or, if I die suddenly, I hope it’s not from being run over by an RJ Reynolds truck.  Those stories would scream for a “Gift Of The Magi” re-write.

Merry Christmas, y’all.  Quit smoking.  Don’t be depressed.

For an important Christmas Gift Alert, click HERE for “Be Careful” on Lunacy.