I believe in Christmas lights. 

No, not the twinkly, obnoxious LED ones that come in every color besides Your Mom’s Mauve. I believe in real Christmas lights. The white, twinkly, simple kind that line farmhouse fences. The kind that make you turn down a side street adding ten minutes to your drive just because you couldn’t look away. I believe in icicle lights that dangle from front porches. A little color is okay, but if I catch you with something inflatable on your front lawn, I can’t say you can count me out as a suspect of popping it. 

I believe in Christmas cookies. Not the store bought kind, but the kind that you can taste all the hard work and fat put into them. I believe that calories don’t count during the holiday season (and every other season). 

I believe in wreaths. Not the “we were too lazy to put up lights because we suck kind of wreaths”, but the wreaths that line every row of shopping mall parking lots as if the 80,000 other angry shoppers didn’t put you in the spirit already.

I believe in Christmas trees, I believe in hot chocolate, and I certainly believe in presents. And most of all, I believe in Santa Claus. Because in my book, no myth has ever made me feel so alive. I truly believe Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year, and if you don’t believe me, ask anyone.

 It’s not that I’m traditional, I’m just the Christmas B*tch.