Vortex

Vortex

Oh, great! Someone in Canada left the back door open again. Which is the only explanation for the drop in temperature from 42F to minus 6F in 45 minutes. Though it’s not as if we didn't have warning about their sloppiness. Which gave me time to get the generator up to speed and carry in a lot of firewood. I even went to the store.

This morning my slipper-shod feet are pointed at the potbelly stove. I have a large mug of coffee at hand and a good book face-down on my belly. I’m settled in for the next few days and not planning to move anytime soon.

Even before I pick up my book, my eyelids flutter.

I don’t bother with Christmas. I live alone and no one visits me. Going through the hassle of putting up decorations feels a bit desperate and only reminds me of my "singlehood". There won’t be gifts under any tree. Whether it’s plastic, aluminum, pre-lit, pre-decorated, organic, full grown or a sapling. No baubles, garlands, candles or blow-up Santas on the roof. No turkey or ham in the oven. Mac ‘n cheese is a lovely meal any day.

I console myself with the promise of a hot toddy later.

A sharp knock on the door wakes me with a start. What fool would be out in this weather? The wind, which wasn’t shy earlier, is asserting itself and tugging at the eaves. I might be Scrooge's second cousin once removed, but I’m not heartless. So, I struggle to my feet and shuffle to the door.

“Hi ya. Hate to bother you, but we got kind of blown off course, don’t you know? Wondering if we could just wait out the storm here, eh?”

Two people are standing on my stoop. A short, five-six at most, round man. And an even shorter, four-ten or -eleven, equally round, woman. They are both grinning inanely from ear to red ear. By all rights, they should be shivering, showing misery, and inviting pity. But they are just too happy. Their noses are like little red buttons in their round faces. Both are elderly, like me. But unlike me, their hair is pure white. The man has a full white beard. ZZ Top have full beards, but this one is pretty. Know what I mean?

Through the blizzard-like snowstorm I can see a sleigh in my front yard. A real sleigh. The wind is whipping at the bells of the harnesses of … oh … shit … no! I look back at the happy little couple. Yup. They are dressed in red.

I step back and let them in. Four miniature people follow them. I groan when I see the pointy ears and green costumes.

“Oh dear!” The old lady exclaims. “This just won’t do. Not at all, at all. Here.”

She hands me, oh gag, a Christmas sweater. Yes, of course, the nose lights up. I smile politely and put it on the console table next to the front door.

“No, no. You have to wear it.” Before I can protest, the thing is over my head, hugging me. It’s made of wool, of course. Remember the episode of “The Big Bang Theory” where whatshisname had to wear that red wool sweater? Wool allergies are real, trust me. But this thing doesn’t come off! It’s stuck to me. Everywhere it touches my skin, it burns and itches and makes me want to scream!

“There.” She pads me on my back, turning the wool fibers into shark's teeth. “That looks better already.”

I want to cry.

The four little pointy-eared men in green have unfurled an aluminum tree and are busy throwing ornaments, garlands, and tinsel at the thing. The short round man in red, with the pretty beard leans toward me.

“So sorry, we ran out of the real things a while back. But my boys here, have a really nice spray. Almost like the real stuff.” He whispers conspiratorially while "his boys" empty two aerosol cans of artificial pine scent on the tree.

There is such a thing as an allergy to perfumes.

I can’t go into a “Bath and Body” shop, beauty-, or massage parlor, walk down the detergent aisle, or pass a Yankee Candle store without feeling as if someone slammed my head into a brick wall.

My eyes water, my head want to explode, I want to tear my skin off my body, run out into the blizzard and roll around in the snow. Death is bound to feel better than this hell.

"Here you go.” The little woman smiles and hands me a mug of hot chocolate.

You guessed it. Lactose intolerant.

“Drink up now, there’s more where this came from.” She threatens. “It’ll get you into the spirit. And I have a special treat for you. Buckeyes!”

Oh, lord! She’s so proud of herself. A spoonful of peanut butter, covered in chocolate. There are bound to be easier ways to die than asphyxiation. Aren’t there?

My head is pounding, I can't see through my tears, my upper body is on fire. And now my throat is closing, and my belly is cramping.

I try to hold it in, I really do. But what the heck, the place stinks already.

These unreasonably cheerful people have invaded my home, triggered almost every one of my allergies – I’m waiting for the latex gloves - and are now blissfully singing carols while gazing adoringly at an aluminum tree.

“Out!” I yell hoarsely while tearing furiously at the red woolen monstrosity that seems to have sprouted roots on my body. “Get out of my house! I didn’t ask to be tortured. Don’t you have any manners? Out, I say.”

The two short and four tiny people freeze, stop mid Silent Ni- and slowly turn toward me.

“What wrong with you?” The little man says. “It’s Christmas.”

As if I didn’t know. I put my hands on my hips, then give them free reign to scratch and tear at my throat and rub my belly. I tell you; mangy dogs have it easier.

“Which is a Christian holiday. The pagan ritual of lighting candles to invite the sun to come back to the northern hemisphere was merely allowed to merge to keep the masses happy. Now get this thing off me, take that stinking thing out of here and go!” I screech while I reach for my epi pen.

I watch their faces fall in hurt and utter disappointment. A tiny part of me, about the size of my big toe, the only part that is not itching or hurting, feels sorry for them. But let’s face it, they live on the freaking North Pole so they and their, admittedly cute reindeer, can handle a polar vortex blizzard.

I stir, yawn, and stretch in my Lay-Z-Boy when my stomach growls. For some reason I feel the urge to check that I’m wearing my cotton turtleneck and acrylic sweatshirt. That my coffee, black with sugar, which has gone cold, is still on the small table next to me. All’s well.

The potbelly could use another log and I wonder what I’ll have for lunch. I could reheat the lactose-free mac’n cheese or … I stop in my tracks.

Talk about ambivalence.

The most adorable reindeer calf is licking its chops and delightful tiny red nose, as it stares up at me with his big brown eyes. The empty pan of my mac’n cheese is in front of him.

Time for that hot toddy.