Black Mood Friday, Bah Humbug

The day after Thanksgiving is traditionally the busiest shopping day of the year. Black Friday, so-called because if all goes well, shopkeepers begin to recoup their years' losses and edge back into the black, indicating profits.

I wouldn't be caught dead in a store on that day.

Apparently, many of the huge chains like Target, Circuit City, Wal-mart, CompUSA, Macy's, and all the other soulless mercantile entities competed this year to see who could open their doors the earliest. Best Buy was the winner (probably) as they made their wares available at 9:00 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day. Fist fights ensued in many cities as people got quite nasty in their attempts to land the best deals.

The spirit of Christmas is alive and well.

Some of the stores advertised tremendous bargains on big-ticket items, but customers who arrived as the doors opened were told they were mysteriously "sold out." A 250" flat screen TV for $99 is a mythical beast, and yes, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus.

Sales clerks were pinned against counters in many stores, eerily reminiscent of rock concerts in which attendees have been trampled to death by hysterical, surging crowds.

Is this really what the season of love and joy is about? Somehow the concept of gifts from the heart has been replaced by this orgy of competitive overspending, but it has to be a bargain, too.

This is insanity.

I love to give presents to those I love, and even on occasion, to strangers. But I am put off by the idea that shopkeepers have decreed that everyone I know must get stuff on the same day. And while I like getting presents as much as anyone, I sincerely hope my family doesn't give me the gorgeous gifts they do out of obligation.

The ghost of Christmases past is with me still. It reminds me of strolling down 5th Avenue to gaze rapturously at the marvelous window displays, followed by skating in Rockefeller Plaza by the giant Christmas tree. How I yearned for a short skating skirt when I was a child. I didn't know how to figure skate, but that was of no concern; the outfit was what mattered.

Years later, I took my own children there. The hot chocolate with clouds of whipped cream was still wonderful, sipped outdoors in air so cold we could see our breath. I bought chestnuts roasted over braziers by old men, my favorite delicacy until my 6-year old daughter noted that the chestnut man had wiped his nose on his sleeve right before scooping our chestnuts into the little brown bag.

I fantasize sometimes about a homestyle Christmas in which everyone gives handmade goods or offers of personal services like a back massage or childcare. And then I visit one of the palatial emporiums with their glorious merchandise piled seductively right at my eye level, the luscious cashmere that insinuates itself into my passing hand, the yummy perfumes, the handbags and shoes so soft and elegant, the jewelry that cries out for my neck, my ears, my wrists and fingers, and I know. I know, deep down, that I will not bake cupcakes for loved ones this year either.

I will push off from shore and brave the rapids. I will risk life and limb. I who hate crowds will become a face in the crowd and do everything it takes to get my family the best holiday gifts I can. Because I really do love the process of sifting through countless items in dozens of stores until I've found the very ones that scream out for my husband, my daughters, my son, the others on my list.

I will lovingly wrap every one of them and barely contain myself until it's finally Christmas and we're all together, the smell of pine and great food is overpowering, and I realize once again that no gifts could possibly express the love I have for these people.

Besides, I don't bake all that well.