All That and Then Some

ALICE - Total Eclipse of the Heart

HOLIDAY PREPARATIONS HAVE KICKED into high gear. Despite having finished Christmas shopping weeks ago, it isn't until I wrap everything and place it under the tree that I see how pitiful the little grouping of presents actually looks.

Every year, sometime in November, I decide that THIS Christmas will be less about consumerism and more about the actual meaning of Christmas, so I identify the one or two things each of my family really needs and I buy that. Only that. Then, in the days leading up to Christmas, I realize that the problem is that I don't know what the 'true meaning of Christmas' actually is, having grown up in the '70s and '80s where consumerism was literally our religion. This leads to the inevitable moment in late December where I stand in front of the tree, fingers sticky with scotch tape and slightly drunk on Baileys, and feel very, very anxious that I am, in fact, letting the whole tradition of Christmas down.

Did I honestly think my teenage daughter would be happy with a personalized baking apron and a silk pillowcase (impulse purchase through a Facebook ad)? That my son — still a child really and deserving of Christmas morning magic — would be delighted by a new bike helmet and a set of Minecraft books? And what does it say about my marriage that all I've found for Vic are some work socks and an oversized travel mug that says "World's Greatest Dad."

Come on, Alice, I reprimand myself. You've got to do better than this. I can think, suddenly, of a million things each of them need, want or would be delighted by and set about ordering them with overnight shipping, praying that they arrive in time.

Just in case they don't, I also use up a precious half-day of freedom at the mall, gathering backup gifts and, arguably, unnecessary stocking stuffers to sort of bulk the whole thing out.

This is how I find myself deep in the whorish heart of the Eaton Centre on December 21st, armed with nothing but my credit card and a frenzied desire to buy everything. I flit in and out of shops, sweating under my winter coat, lured in by tinsel and BOGO signs; I finger cashmere sweaters uncertainly, poke through piles of toys, and sniff around tables of glossy apple products.

An hour or two into my shopping adventure, exhausted by the crowds and feet aching, I decide to take my armload of bags over to the food court and reward myself with a Cinnabon and coffee. The internalized voice of my food coach, who would normally be shouting nonsense about green plans and zero-point options, is officially off duty. It's Christmas, I tell her. Chill the hell out and enjoy a pastry.

After elbowing my way into an impossible-to-find empty table, practically helping the vacating residents on with their coats, I deposit my bags safely under my table, between my feet, with a big sigh of relief. The whirring frenzy of consumerism I've been in the grip of starts to ebb at last as I peel luscious sticky strips of cinnamon bun and shuttle them into my mouth meditatively.

I'm so absorbed in this delicious act of food rebellion that I barely notice the skwaks of recognition that feel almost commonplace now (although no less embarrassing). They erupt around me at intervals whenever I'm in a public place. Especially one populated largely by teens.

Oh my god - it's the BigButts lady!

In the grand scheme of things, I tell myself, I'd rather be recognized as the #bigbutts lady than the #pushitpukefest lady and just try to tune them out. I keep ferrying fingerfuls of dough toward my mouth until the whole cinnamon bun is gone.

I'm keeping my head down (in case of filming) and discreetly trying to lick white icing off my fingers when a pair of workman's overalls appear in my peripheral vision next to my table.

Ugh, I can deal with the squawking and whispering, but I hate it when they try to take selfies with me.

"Look," I say, annoyed and refusing to make eye contact with the owner of the coveralls. "Can't a woman just sit in a food court and eat a Cinnabon in peace without being—"