Most women I know complain about Christmas.

That's because we go to ridiculous lengths to make it Pinterest-perfect for everyone but ourselves.

We strive for scenes of cosy contentment, wrapped up in red velvet bows and lush garlands. We pipe icing onto gingerbread houses and spend entire Saturday afternoons at the mall in search of the perfect gifts. Our mothers did this before us and we are training our daughters to do the same. It's gender-driven, self-inflicted suffering, and we have no one but ourselves to blame. Christmas celebrates the birth of a martyr, but it has become our cross to bear.

I used to be one of these women. Not anymore.

For years I resented the oppressiveness of Christmas. As the day drew near, my crankiness grew with my to-do list: shopping, baking, decorating, entertaining, wrapping, travelling to see out-of-town family, parties and neighbourhood open houses, last-minute teacher gifts, running to the corner store on Dec. 24 for more Scotch tape. I didn't recall applying for the position of head elf, but it seemed the only criteria in the job description was being a woman. (My particular holiday tradition is Christmas; if yours is something else, likely it too comes with a long to-do list.)

Sure, there were elements I enjoyed, like seeing the delight on my daughters' faces when they opened their stockings on Christmas morning. But mostly the whole thing was exhausting. Heaven and nature did not sing. Joy to the world? More like joy to the mall.

I usually got to "rest" after the holidays, when I inevitably came down with the flu after having waved a wand all month to make the magic happen.

My idea of the perfect Christmas holiday was to stay home, keep out of the mall, spend more time on the couch reading than in the kitchen cooking, hang out with my kids, invite friends over to play games and spend as little money as possible. Did I mention napping?

All of this seemed an impossible dream.

Then came the epiphany a few years back: only one thing prevented this dream from becoming reality and that was me. The Christmas cards were the first to go. Initially, I felt guilty. What would my sisters-in-law think if they didn't get a personal postage-stamped holiday greeting? It would reflect poorly on me, not on my husband, who has never mailed a single Christmas card in all his 65 years. But after that first year, dispensing with the cards was easy.

Once I lowered my expectations, I lowered them some more. I ditched the turkey. I quit buying presents for absolutely everyone except my university-age daughters, who now get a crisp $100 bill, a couple of gift cards for small dollar amounts in their stockings and some chocolate. I put them in charge of decorating the tree, a task they do willingly since they enjoy reminiscing over the special ornaments from their childhood.

On Christmas Eve we'll stop in at a friend's annual open house, attend a short candlelight service at our local Unitarian Church, and back at home we'll watch "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" (the Jim Carrey version) as we have done every year since it came out in 2000.

Christmas morning I whip up a simple breakfast of champagne and orange juice, french toast, baby potatoes and berries. Stockings are opened and homemade cards are read before we head out for a walk in the woods with birdseed in our pockets to feed the chickadees.

In the afternoon, I nap and read. Later, we'll go to a movie with friends or order Chinese takeout. I don't bake, cook, shop, wrap, decorate or travel. I usually say "no, thank you" to a few lovely holiday invitations. This is the hardest part - I'm a people pleaser and hate to let anyone down. But in order for Christmas to be sane, simple and enjoyable, saying no is necessary.

When I go to bed that night, I feel content instead of cranky - and everyone else seems happy too. I fall asleep with sugar plums dancing in my head because the next day is Boxing Day and I will stay in my pyjamas for the duration.

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