Unable to sleep last night due to additional sets of elbows and knees, not to mention gymnastic limbs, piled into my bed. Nothing like a good sharp jab in the eye at 1 a.m.
Decide to try the couch. Moved the couch on Sunday to make way for ultra-realistic 9-foot Scotch Pine Christmas tree. Turn on lights, of course, believing this will induce dreamlike state of tranquility.
Tree is magnificent: perfectly proportioned, gloriously tall. Glistening long needles reflect pre-strung white lights, effecting both sparkle and shimmer.
Perfection drives home fact that "realistic" means not real. No needles on the floor. No piney scent.
Pad down to car in garage to fetch evergreen candle purchased last night. Lie on couch, gazing at magnificent ultra-realistic fake tree while deeply sniffing unlit candle.
Helping a little.
Try to conjure up memories of Christmas trees from childhood. Only memory emerging is of year Dad caught me smoking in bathroom. Grounded me for life on way to tree lot.
Set candle on table and get up to fuss with ornaments. Uneven depth perception, due to late hour and lack of eyeglasses, causes me to stumble into tree, rocking it up onto two of its four spindly plastic feet. Fortunately able to catch and return to upright position. Avert major disaster but suffer loss of red and gold Christmas ball.
Christmas casualty count stands at one.
Dustbust collateral damage. Recall youthful commitment to never compromise the spirit of Christmas with fake tree and Christmas balls.
Turn off tree lights and resign to oldest child's vacated bed. Fall asleep bathed in blue light from (also blue) aluminum tree on nightstand.
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