I pulled into the Christmas tree lot determined to enjoy my holiday decorating. No matter that no one in the family was available to come with me. That time worked for me. I like doing stuff by myself. And I was going to put the cat-peed-all-over-the-decoration-boxes debacle behind me. So my clothes ended up smelling like a San Francisco parking lot stairwell, I had changed into clean clothes and decided my holiday spirit would not be deterred.
It was a pleasantly cool day in Northern California and I arrived with full awareness of how much a tree was going to cost. I would not let the cost dampen my holiday spirits. I stopped at the little checkout trailer and dropped off my base from last year so that I could take home a tree already in a new base. And then I wandered into the rows of trees, inhaling the intoxicating smell of freshly cut fir. Yep, I did it, I had gotten back into the holiday mood. I decided I might even forgive the cat.
I ended up at the very back of the smallish lot, found my perfect eight foot tree and went looking for a helper to carry it to the front.
As I wandered back towards the front of the lot I noticed that the employees in matching tree lot T-shirts were all on the . . . mature side. Where were all the college or high school kids? Ahh, it was a Tuesday and just after Thanksgiving. The kids were all in school.
A sixty-something woman in one of the T-shirts asked if I need help.
I said, “Yes, I found one, down at the other end!”
She sighed and slumped, “Down at the end? Oh great, a big one,” she said like it was anything but great.
We went down, I showed it to her, she said, hopefully, “are you having it delivered?”
“No, taking it with me,” I said.
This time a sigh that was more of a blowing out of all her oxygen. “Well then, okay. I might have to rest carrying this one, give me some time.” She pulled the price tag off and handed it to me. “Here’s the ticket, you can go pay while I figure this out.”
I felt guilty, like was she old and infirm enough that this was a struggle? If so, why was she working here?
I paid, and she eventually trudged up with the tree. She dropped the tree in front of me. “I’m going to need a break before taking this to the car.” She leaned over and rested her hands on her thighs, breathing hard.
“I can help carry it,” I said.
“Yes, that would help,” she nodded emphatically.
So I helped carry it to the car. By which I mean I mostly carried it to the car.
With the tree lying on the ground beside the car she slowly leaned over and rested one hand on her knee and with the other put some string around base. Some grunts and more heavy breathing.
“I can help lift it onto the car,” I told her, feeling increasingly guilty about the labor she was forced to do.
She said, “that would be good, my balance isn’t so great these days.”
Before we lifted the tree I ask her how it should be positioned. “With the stand hanging over front, sticking out enough to not hit the window,” she said.
I did most of the lifting to get it up. She stood looking at it and pointed. “It should be more in middle but I can’t reach up there.”
I opened my car door and stood on the running board and positioned the tree in the middle.
She fiddled with strings on either side for what felt like at least twenty minutes. I spent the time debating whether to tip her. I realized that the only reason she must have been doing this job was because she needed this job. I felt bad that she had to do a job she had no physical ability to do.
Then another older guy in knee brace and matching T-shirt came by. “That’s not attached right in front,” he told her. He adjusted something.
She finally finished her fiddling.
I tipped her. I couldn’t help it, despite doing so much of the work myself. Despite being made to feel guilty that I purchased a sort of large tree. Guilty for asking anything of her at all, really.
I pulled slowly out of the lot, giggling at the absurd way I had just gotten my tree. It was like buying a tree from Saturday Night Live’s Debbie Downer.
Within a quarter mile, going super slow, the tree started slipping sideways, the base hanging over the front windshield swinging back and forth in front of me, string whipping freely in the breeze. I put on my hazards and pulled over as soon as I could. It wasn’t easy because I was in the left lane of a four lane road and there were cars all around me. I finally made it to the right and found a place to pull off safely. The front string was completely undone.
I felt like such a sucker. She gave me the worst customer service, I did her job, and then, insult to injury, I tipped her.
I try so hard to be a kind person, a compassionate person, to look for the Most Generous Interpretation (see French Fries at the Dog Park) and it was Christmas time for crying out loud, but there is a time to stop making excuses for other people. I paid for a service that was done so badly it put me at risk while driving. I was mad at her for doing a bad job and I was mad at her for making me feel bad I was mad at her. I was mad I tipped her.
Then I remembered that some things are an AND situation, not either/or.
I can feel compassion for an older woman working at a job she’s not capable of AND be angry that she did such a shit job at tying on my tree. I don’t have to pick between being a kind person and an angry person. I can be both.
I stepped onto the sideboard and tied my tree tightly to the roof rack reveling in my anger, enjoying it, stoking it, even. It’s not that hard to tie a knot.
I am a kind AND angry woman and I am just fine with that. That was my Christmas present to myself. I can be all the things.
Merry-effing-Christmas.
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