Why you shouldn’t strive for the perfect Christmas

A STRANGE thing happened to me one Christmas Day afternoon. I was a young adolescent, certainly not too old to enjoy sweets and gifts and the inevitable Bond movie on the telly. Yet after the presents had been unwrapped, and the turkey and pudding consumed, I found myself feeling deflated. I took to my bedroom and lay down in the December dark. When my father found me, I tearfully complained: Christmas was already over, but it wasn’t even four o’clock.

It was all a little juvenile, but then, so was I. Yet perhaps my bout of sadness reflected something more universal. Didn’t Alexander weep because there were no more worlds to conquer? (Possibly not.) We busy humans are always looking ahead to the moment our goals are achieved. And then what? The feeling of emptiness often stalks the feeling of accomplishment like a shadow.

What distinguishes the teenage me from the adult me – and from many other adults – is that the adult me has far more projects, with far more goals to achieve. When I tick something off the list, I don’t flop in my bedroom; I’m too busy for that. The to-do list is long.