Driving along a throughway last night, where the well to do have set up residence, I was enjoying the marvel of Christmas lights. They passed by in an array of sparkles and colors. It was a happy mark of the season.
They were all beautiful. Some were clearly professionally done, perfect, not a light out of place, no garland not well placed, perfect, and more than a little soulless. Then right next door, despite the fact that anyone on this street could afford to hire out this chore, would be a house clearly decorated homemade. Those were beautiful, obviously done with the help of a child, some of it uniform most of it chaotic imperfection, splendid beauty, no perfection in sight.
I confess, as if my words didn’t allude to it, that I prefer the latter, the charm and inconsistency of personal effort. I like knowing that a family has enough to never lift a finger again, but they still love getting in the yard and putting up the lights, getting in the kitchen to bake the cookies instead of the help, gathering by the fire to make the smores instead of ordering out.
I won’t ever understand why there is the innate need to conform once people realize a certain level of financial reach. Why they want to suck out the very essence of what allowed them to attain their success in order to look like everyone else on the block. There’s a sadness to that, a loss of individuality.
Well, I guess it’s time to get my lights out of the attic. I’ll be reassessing my opinion by my 3rd trip to Lowes to replace dead lights.