Christmas is nothing more than an excess of custom, starting with the date. It represents an exuberant “always the same” that For some it becomes unbearable and for others it is very gratifying.. That also constitutes another custom: the detractors and supporters of these fifteen days. Maybe the hero is the uninterested individual at this time, the one who when told “Happy Holidays” is surprised and can answer, honestly, that he had no idea it’s Christmas. Admiration for someone like that would be automatic. But who can live in such a way, completely and inexplicably ignorant, immersed in the little verbs that come up on everyday days, like working, having lunch, resting, shivering, sneezing, crying, sleeping, walking, paying, washing, forget or joke, completely foreign to the most solemn, such as celebrate, toast, give awayetc.
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In ‘The Plot’, by Alejandro Simon Portalthere is a moment when the narrator confesses to being dependent on the presence of his partner. “I got used to it,” he says, “and you do what you get used to.” And that’s where all of us are, dedicated to “doing”, for or against, Christmas, because We have not known any other way of existing when December arrives. It is tremendous, because basically it is about doing something many times, without getting tired of it, as if life were more bearable if among the new there is an opportunity to repeat the old.
When you don’t know what to do, because there is nothing to do, or vice versa, because there is so much, you often choose to do the usual thing. Of course, customs admit changes: those of one by another. Nothing has to last forever. It just doesn’t change that you need customs, whatever they are.. In the habit of having customs, the other day I met someone who, every December 25, for three years, buys a ‘panetone’ that he has to eat in one minute. That’s the ritual. Finishing such a bun in sixty seconds seems to me to be one of the most beautiful customs to indulge in at Christmas.