When does it look too much like Christmas? Just ask a guy

THIS IS THE TIME of year that convinces me that men are an absolute necessity. Maybe not for you. Maybe you are one of those women who needs a man like a fish needs a $98 crystal Times Square Ball ornament dangling over the aquarium.

But me? This time of year I really ought to have a guy handcuffed to my wrist at all times.

Because men – at least the men I know who might consent to be handcuffed to me – have a certain kind of common sense about Christmas that I don’t have.

Men know there can be too much of it.

In fact, I’m starting to think that having a man around during the holidays is a lot like taking a canary into a mine shaft. Men lose consciousness at the veriest whiff of too much Christmas.

Last week I witnessed this phenomenon on a trip to The Home Depot tree lot with my husband. The place was crowded with couples. Men held up tree after tree and women rejected them. The women seemed to be in charge, yet the key to finding the right tree seemed to be the response to an alarm only the male could sense.

“Oh, fine,” one woman said to an older guy gasping for air. “We’ll pick this one. You just want to get out of here.”

Another couple had brought their sons with them on the tree-buying trip. Both boys wore whimsical Santa hats. The dad struggled to hold up trees and hold on to the picturesque golden Lab at the same time. His eyelids were fluttering.

“You can have that one if you want it,” the wife snapped. “I can tell you want to get out of here.”

I thought a young couple was going to avoid the whole debacle when the woman looked at only one tree.

“This one is fine,” she told her mate.

“Really?” the guy said. “That was easy.”

“Well, of course,” she said, tucking her arm into his. “I can tell you want to get out of here.”

It wasn’t that these guys thought the errand was stupid. They looked like they were happy enough to go in and get the tree. Like my husband, Brad, these guys were just pretty sure that even if you inspected every tree , by the time you got it home, there would be something wrong with it. It is a tree.

The woman part of me does not realize that fact when I’m breathing the heady air of a Christmas tree lot. I’m not buying a tree. I’m buying a perfect tree, a tree that will reign over the most glorious, most wonderful Christmas we’ve ever had.

That’s why I keep trying to convince Brad to slip into these handcuffs. He does not believe that perfection is a part of Christmas. He doesn’t think we actually need outdoor lights and indoor lights and a Christmas village under the tree and a train that runs all over the house and a party to prove to the world that we’ve done it all.

I envy that so much that I am edging toward the guy way of doing Christmas. I’m not saying we ought to embrace it. Who would make sure that each kid has exactly the same number of presents? Who would twitch a bow just so?

I’m thinking we females ought to embrace the guys themselves. We ought to keep them close. Observe their eyelids. Be ready to jump at the merest hint that the man is experiencing too much Christmas.

Enough is enough. And, somehow, they know it.