Christmas Eve in Silver Spring

I saw two things yesterday: the video for "Christmas in Hollis,"  and an article about "hygge," which was apparently a contender for most hated word of 2016.  I had never even heard that word before, but I usually only become aware of cultural trends when they're already in everyone else's rear view mirror.

I'd never actually seen the Run-DMC video, even though I was young in the 80s, when the song debuted.  We lived in Philadelphia, which was the last major city to get cable TV.  MTV used to air almost nothing but music videos, but I didn't see most of them, because we didn't have cable. 

The family home depicted in the video looked a lot like the house that I grew up in looked at Christmas.  Small, even a little cramped; clean, but cluttered looking; and not temporary clutter, but the settled and lived-in clutter of thick carpet,  slightly mismatched, slightly oversized furniture and wallpaper, and surfaces covered with knick-knacks and framed pictures  Add in a Christmas tree that's bigger than the couch, presents, plates of cookies and dishes of candy, and a Nativity scene, and you have quite the cozy and abundant little Christmas scene.  

But not hygge.  Because hygge is not just warmth and happiness and home and hearth. It's  an aesthetic; one that doesn't include Hummel figurines and fake Christmas trees with glass ornaments and boxes of Russell Stover Christmas candy.  Hygge depends on uncluttered surfaces, warm but minimalist Scandinavian furniture, hardwood floors, and a wood-burning fire.  A hygge Christmas scene would include cashmere Fair Isle socks and real mistletoe and holly.  It definitely would not include "Christmas Vacation" playing on a big TV or a framed Currier and Ives print.  Homemade cookies and mulled cider: Hygge. Chips and dip in knock-off Spode Christmas dishes: Not hygge. 

I could make fun of this artificially authentic aesthetic all day long, but there's no denying its appeal.  I mock Real Simple magazine, but secretly covet the perfectly organized softly watercolored rooms that shine from its photo spreads.  I love stacks of perfectly folded color drenched blankets, stored on polished blond wood shelves.  I imagine a kitchen where a single handmade ceramic bowl, holding a few perfect ripe pears, sits alone on a gleaming countertop. But I'm also a little nostalgic for a less demanding aesthetic; a little more comfortable, and a little less austere. 

This being 2016 (almost over, thank God), the whole idea is further complicated by politics, because according to some cultural observers, only upper middle class privileged white people would ever aspire to anything as bourgeois and impractical as cozy home comfort or beautiful surroundings.  I'm too lazy right now to really break this down; I'll just say that the only thing that bores me more than identity politics is tiresome privilege narratives. When the revolution comes, I'm going to end up in a re-education camp. 

As usual, I'm trying to write this while I do fifteen other things (it's Christmas Eve; I'm busy) so I'm not sure how I'm going to bring this winding and pointless train into the station.  We're home now.  My house, not quite mid-century Scandinavian serenity, but not quite Christmas in Hollis sensory overload, is clean and decorated.  Most of the presents are wrapped, and the kitchen is pretty well-stocked with treats.  We're not around the fire, though; we're around the TV watching the Redskins.  Christmas Eve Mass at 6 pm.  Not quite hygge, maybe, but we'll take it.  Merry Christmas.