“Did you get into a fight with a Christmas tree?”

The guy in Rite Aid asked me that.

“There are needles all over me?”

He nodded.

Earlier that day I went to the gym to do some elliptical and my PT. Afterwards I walked up to 7th avenue to see what kind of trees might be out on the street. It’s December now, so, the floodgates are open on Christmas (I’m aware that I’m writing this on the first night Hanukkah), it’s time for a tree, the German stars in my window, hitting the pop-up market at Union Square, all of it.

I wasn’t sure if they’d be out because it’s raining and it might not be the best night for it. But I went by the church that sells them in the alley next to it (not nearly as sketchy as it sounds). I found what appeared to be the perfect tree leaning agains the wall, not wrapped up like the others. I bought it, put it up on my shoulder, and walked the more-blocks-than-I-expected home, sweaty and in the rain. I didn’t take a shower before going to Rite Aid (I needed a new toothbrush and a lightbulb), hence the needles.

I’m on my couch staring at an undecorated tree and, briefly, I had a vision of a month (eh, six weeks) in the future when I’ll be throwing it out on the street and it’ll be 2019 and my apartment will feel weirdly empty without it, this temporary thing.

I’ve only had Christmas trees for the last five years or so. The first one a nominal tree, Charlie Brown Christmas style. Each subsequent year they’ve grown in size, necessitating another new string of colored lights. Now I have a tree the size of the trees I used to have at home in Rochester (where we also bought them from a church but not in an alley).

Tomorrow, my girlfriend and I will trim it. It’s Christmas time, people. Bring on Vince Guaraldi and The Grinch (the real one, not the re-make crap).