Last year, this was my Christmas tree.  Sure, I shared it with a few million other people in the city where I lived, but that was a small price to pay for such majestic beauty within walking distance of my front door.

In my last post, I mentioned this year’s Rockefeller tree lighting but neglected to point out that I hadn’t watched the whole special.  I had it on DVR, and along with Glee (too emotional) and Samantha Brown’s Great Weekends (too annoying), I have to sneak peeks at these jewels on my List of Recordings when The Husband isn’t around.  After all, he puts up with the Music Choice channel constantly blasting either classical or Christmas music, so I can give him a break.  (But don’t think for a second that his iPod playlist lacks “Don’t Stop Believing”, the non-Journey version.  YA BURNT.)

Anyway, I had just finished watching Samantha spend the weekend in Coney Island and DUMBO and realized that, short of a couple of cheesy Al Roker moments, I had a lot of lighting left to see.  So I settled in, remote in hand, and fast-forwarded through most of the show (but not Jessica Simpson’s performance, for the same reason I slow down and gawk at traffic accidents) to the climactic moment.  5…4…3…2…1…disco.  The tree burst into lights, and I burst into tears.

Disclaimer:  I hate public displays of emotion.  My bias against them is related to my tendency toward misanthropy, specifically a distrust of people’s motives. When I see a person cry, I grit my teeth and wait for the moment when they expect me to pay them attention or money.  But it was just me and the Holy Spirit on the couch last night, so I let the tears roll down.  What is wrong with me? I asked myself, and started laughing, which made me cry even more.  There’s such a fine line.  After a few seconds, I gave myself permission to miss my old city to the point of tears.  So I sank into my grief, which lasted about thirty more seconds, and thought about all the things I missed in the city.  Then one of them called, the fabulous BB.  And as he discussed the Tribeca apartment he had just shown a celebrity couple, I gave thanks for long-distance relationships.  With friends and cities.

During our relief pitching session for the Brother-in-Law, he gave TH and me painting pointers.  We had just tried out a lovely shade of paint on the wall of our new bedroom.  Lovely in the can, at least.  On the wall it looked much like what I found in the niece’s diaper.  He related a story of how he had painted their great room a shade of green that, when finished, looked straight out of an Easter-egg dyeing kit.  When The Sis came home that day, she took one look at the walls and began crying where she stood.  As the guys laughed about her overreaction, I joined in while secretly completely getting it.

I remember a time in my life when I would trip and look around to find the person who had stuck their foot out.  When I was alone.  On an uneven sidewalk. I have reigned as both the Queen of Taking Things Personally and the Empress of Taking Herself too Seriously (a title I shared with Oprah).  But after one too many falls, I lay on the ground like the old lady in the commercial and gave up.  That’s when grace came along and showed me how to laugh at my unending clumsiness even as I cried over my revealed worth.

Walker Hayes is an up-and-coming country singer/songwriter with whom I happened to attend college.  I love telling “I knew them when” stories, so I showed TH the video for Hayes’ song “Pants” the other night.  When the song hit the chorus/punch line, TH’s eyes widened and we both started laughing.  The song is all about that inevitable interplay between husband and wife, with the wife wearing the pants and the husband taking orders.  There is a gem of a moment at the end of the video, when Hayes’ wife (also a fellow alum–Go Panthers!) reminds him of something he forgot to do and he answers with a sweet (distraction-inducing) “I love you.”  Moments like these show me the kinship to be found across human experience: that a sense of humor can transform nagging into love; that redemption can transform flaws into opportunities.  Truly something to sing–and laugh–about.