Right now, on stages all over America, there are little girls in pink toe shoes fluttering like butterflies to the sound of Tchaikovsky. Like the tree in Rockefeller Center and mall Santas, it's one of the more beloved reminders that The Season is here once more. So why don't I feel more jolly?
There must be a list somewhere of the people for whom the holidays are especially difficult -- victims of loss, the divorced, single parents, those from dysfunctional families, orphans, lone travelers, civil servants, doctors and nurses who must work, patients, American Jews, in fact, I could probably continue until I include every one of us. Some, like me, fall into two or three of these categories.
When did love and joy become supplanted by stress and loss? If you're no longer invited to the feast because your kid's stepmother demanded of your in-laws, who included you in the last 20 Christmases, to leave you out and you have no place else to go -- how are you supposed to make happy and merry?
I wonder if it's too late to make reservations on the Island of Misfit Toys? Or perhaps I should give the Rat King a call. I'll bet he doesn't have plans for Christmas.
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