Finish Line Thursday -- Christmas Eve

Being a getting-there-is half-the-fun, anticipation-over-destination sort of guy, Christmas Eve is my kind of day.

Christmas Day is great. But today, I enjoy watching the chaos finally subside and the stress fade. We had the hand-to-wallet combat of Black Friday. Now it's time for the soothing exhale of Finish Line Thursday.

Those tangled lights I wrestled with in the bushes seem to glow a little brighter. Carols we've been hearing, seemingly, since Halloween are a little less annoying, The pickled herring seems a little more herringy.

My Christmas Eve preference likely dates back to the FPJ period of my childhood. That's the footie pajamas era. Got a brand new pair every Christmas Eve.

Admittedly, our Christmas Eves were not really interesting in a reality TV/tell-all memoir sort of way. Our traditions were straightforward and blessedly bland. We didn't hold a candle to the Japanese, who curiously woof down buckets of yuletide KFC chicken on this day, or Sweden, where half of the blinkin' country gathers at 3 p.m. on Christmas Eve every year to watch a 1958 Disney cartoon special. You can look it up.

None of my beastly, bulging relatives ever jumped into an RV and kidnapped any of my bosses, ala Clark W. Griswold. It was standard comfort and joy. Although there were exceptions.

There was Christmas Eve 1983. It was 20 below. A 50-mph wind kicked up a blinding ground blizzard. My college-aged brother was stranded 100 miles away at his girlfriend/future wife's house. And our longtime cat, Perkins, decided Christmas Eve was a good time to cash in her ninth life. The weather was so awful that she had to lay in state, temporarily, in our deep freeze.

I can't remember exactly, but I'm pretty sure my mom popped the Cold Duck early that year.

The next day, my dad drove on nearly impassable roads to bring my brother his luggage so he could go to the Gator Bowl. Parental sacrifice yields yet another Christmas miracle. Santa brought a Commodore 64 computer that year. And it was on that day, I saw my first confusing error message. Welcome to the future, kid.

Most years were less trying. I'd usually get carted into town early with a few bucks in my pocket to by my own gifts, thoughtful stuff, like a wooden spoon for Mom - she loves to stir - and a bar of soap depicting a golfer for Dad - he's clean and has golf clubs. There was closed-door-present-wrapping, fudge-eating, oyster-stew-slurping and nighttime present-ripping.

And now the finish line is nigh. And I've got two little present-rippers at home in need of some FPJ.

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