As special as opening a new box of crayons.

I did it again. I, put up the Christmas lights on the house. But this time, it was All. BY. MYSELF.

Holiday 2016 was already proving insane and it was only December 1^st. If I didn’t take on the task of hanging Christmas lights myself, it would never happen. The weekends were jammed. So, there I found myself alone on our roof, on a sunny but very chilly Thursday morning. Work and school took all my help away.  Nobody to hold the ladder or toss up the lights.

Before I even stepped on the ladder, I made a safety plan. I wore my bright pink puffy parka. If I fell off for some reason, I would stand out in the piles of autumn leaves scattered about our yard. I text two of my neighbors to alert them of my scheme: “I’m going up on the roof to put up the lights, without supervision. If you see a pile of pink on the ground, call an ambulance.” (Hubby says guys would never make a safety plan.)

I dragged string after string of lights up the ladder and hoisted them on to the roof, five trips in all. When it came time to hoist myself up too, I prayed the ladder would stay still as I shimmied my way on to the roof, testing my strong arms I developed at the gym.

For three hours I untangled yards of lights and clipped them to the roof. I kept a stash of white plastic hooks in the pocket of my pink puffy parka, doling them out like a carpenter hammering nails into a wooden plank. Genius! No lights were going to sag on my watch, my biggest pet peeve.

Car after car drove past, slowing slightly. Is the vision of pink in ratty old yoga pants a she on top of that house? I can’t help but wonder if the passers by are also asking, “Why is SHE doing that job?”  Hubby would put the lights up if he had the time. I get it.  But I’m a little ruffled to be honest.  My Christmas lights obsession overrides my ire; I put the lights ups anyway, pushing the lookie-lous out of my head.

My kind eighty-year-old neighbor actually stopped his car, rolled down the window and said, “You be careful up there. It’s going to look terrrrific! Terrrrific!”

I was very careful. Mostly I scooted around on my bum, centering my “central point of gravity,” lest I tumble off into the brush below, or worse the concrete driveway. The price for safety: a fanny full of slivers. I do not recommend yoga pants for rooftop jobs.

I was so obsessed with finishing, I canceled lunch plans via my smartphone. “Can we push it out 45 minutes?  Reschedule?” Not even a fashion text alert about a cute new top could take me away. “Just in!  Interested?” Obsessed!

At last, my job was complete. I made it off the roof and down the ladder without incident, except for splinters covering my hands and bum.

The real test of my success, was throwing the “switch” at 5 pm, right at dusk. I did not follow electrical circuit overload rules, i.e., connecting four strings into one socket instead of three. Would I blow up the house?

I did not.

I shared the moment with yet another neighbor out walking her dog.

“It looks great,” my bubbly neighbor said.

“I did it ALL. BY. MYSELF. And look! All the lights are STRAIGHT!” I exclaimed as I jumped up and down admiring my work.

“I’m glad to get the background.” She amusingly stated.

I was so excited I sent photos to my brothers and sisters and my two watch-dog neighbors, the ones to call the ambulance if needed, “Looking BRILLIANT at my house!”

The reply, “I can’t believe you do that!”

“It’s up to me to make sure we have a VERY MERRY Christmas.” I replied back.

I was very merry and very proud. Hubby was very, very glad. I knew why but I didn’t care any more. I enjoyed the triumph of doing a “man’s job.” My youngest teen was bah-humbug in my moment of excitement but was the first to turn on the lights the following night. Ha! I knew it! He really does care. And for my college son, the lights were a cheery welcome home.

And that’s why I’m obsessed with Christmas Lights.

TERRRRIFIC!

STRAIGHT!