Christmas used to be the most exciting day ever, but now it just blows. I know, I know, Christmas is about Jesus and love and happiness, not giving gifts, but for the rest of us whose friends don't take that kind of mushy theological reasoning for an answer, Christmas means long lines, free samples, pushy Israelis harking exfoliating salt from the Dead Sea and whining, sticky children. I've spent a total of eight hours in the mall over the past two days and the next chirpy teenager who asks me if I'm finding everything I need is going to get stabbed in the eye. Yes, I'm finding everything, being that your store is barely bigger than my bedroom, and no, I don't want the trial size or the coupons or the special offer for only five extra dollars. Christmas used to be pure and sweet, like the glittery snow that fell in the holiday movies I used to watch. Not anymore. Now Christmas is a festering sore on the bottom of my foot, a dagger in my wallet, a dreaded torturous crusade. Maybe next year I will not get anyone presents and focus on the real meaning of Christmas, which I'm pretty sure has nothing to do with swirly shimmery peppermint lotion at Bath & Body Works. Ugh. To be five again.