The Marriage and The Tree

A real tree. See how it leans slightly to the right?!

    I swore that I would nevah evah have a fake tree. I caved. The Husband and I were finding the Continental Divide was invading our marriage every December. It would start immediately after Thanksgiving. He would camp out on one side of the den, arms akimbo, glaring at me whenever I took a deep breath because he knew what was coming. "Honey, it's time..." No matter how sweetly I prefaced it, the response was always the same. You would think I was asking him to undergo a natural childbirth without any preparation. Really. There was just no palatable way to approach the topic of THE TREE, because with him it was THE DREADED HORRIBLE NO GOOD TERRIBLE TREE.
   Over the years I tried everything. I roped one of my adult children into accompanying me and let The Husband stay home. He still glared at us when we got home. I even went by myself. The Home Depot guys feel sorry for women shopping for 9 foot trees by themselves. They ask questions like "Will someone help you untie this from your car?" and "How are you going to get this inside? It's very heavy." Duh. But not one of them ever offered to accompany me home and put the tree up. I guess that was asking too much. After all, I was wearing a wedding ring.
   One year I even ordered a tree and had it delivered. That went over about as well as if I had robbed Fort Knox. Over the course of a thirty-seven year marriage I am embarrassed to say that I have groveled. I have whined. I have begged. I have pleaded. I have bribed. However, no matter what strategy I have employed, The Husband is always in a huff about THE TREE.
   I don't know what it is about THE TREE but it brings out the adolescent male in him. The adolescent male. In a nearly 60 year old man's body. Interesting.
   Two years ago, I bridged the divide. I went to the after Christmas sale and bought a very nice and fully lit FAKE Christmas tree. It just about killed me. But I had had one too many arguments about THE TREE. It was one of those places where you just know that you are gonna have to climb the hill to die.
   I surprised myself. I actually don't mind the tree. The clean-up is so much easier. I was definitely getting too old to climb a ladder to wrap a sheet around a dead molting tree so that I and I alone could drag it through the living room and out the front door of the house. I sound a bit like a martyr, don't I? I want him to remember those days. In fact I am hoping that he will read this post. I will email it to him just in case.
    So...with a FAKE tree, you would think all of the problems would be solved. No solo trips to Home Depot. No exorbitant delivery fees. No wrestling with that green thing with screws that is supposed to help a tree remain upright. No more arguments, whining, begging, pleading, et al. Problem solved. Right? Then you tell me why it is that here I sit with a grumpy husband who is now moaning and groaning about bringing the box inside and having to assemble (with my son's assistance) a very heavy and unwieldy FAKE tree. It seems I can't win. But then again, it's not about winning. Or so I tell myself.
   However, I am thinking The Husband is gonna have to climb that hill to die over this one. And I will be right there pushing him up that hill every step of the way. After all, the bigger sacrifice has been made. Now he just needs to make his. Tonight.

The fake tree. No leaning. No mess. No Fuss.
Except that it still requires help in assembly.