So, I was driving home for lunch the other day because I’m super lucky and I work, like, 5 minutes away from home. When I got in my car and turned it on, I was auditorily assaulted by The Christmas Shoes by Bob Carlisle. Assaulted, I tell you.
I first heard this song a few years ago. At the time I was all “This song is lame. WTH. Christmas shoes? Who wants to hear about some stupid Christmas shoes, anyway? And WTH are Christmas shoes? On Christmas I pretty much just wear my regular old sneakers and probably my slippers but I don’t even own anything I’d call ‘Christmas shoes’. They’re probably ugly and jingle-bally and sparkly but not cute sparkly like a unicorn.”
And then my brain shut up for two seconds and I was instantly bawling like a baby. A blubbery, pregnant, adult baby.
The kid’s buying shoes for his mama IN CASE SHE MEETS JESUS TONIGHT? Merry Effing Christmas, Bob. I know people die every day of the year and it’s horrible and sad and a fact of crummy life but that’s why we DON’T WRITE CHRISTMAS SONGS ABOUT IT. Christmas is for making the yule tide gay and decking the halls and kissing Santa Claus and excluding Rudolph from reindeer games and asking for hippopotamuses. Christmas is NOT for singing about saintly mothers losing their battle with terminal illnesses. That’s not fair to those of us who keep our emotions inside. Because it’s not pretty when they get out.
I had the same reaction to Where Are You Christmas by Faith Hill (Oh My God, where are you Christmas? *sob*) and also I’ll Be Home For Christmas, but only by Josh Groban. His version has the recorded messages by soldiers fighting overseas and they will be home for Christmas, but only in their dreams. Jesus, that sucks. *S.O.B. sob*
But this year is different. This year I’m exceedingly and thankfully not pregnant (nothing more superficially depressing than either being too sick to stomach your favourite meal of the entire year or being too stuffed full of fetus to eat more than a couple of peas and a bun) so logic told me that I could properly listen to The Christmas Shoes in it’s entirety and properly rip it a new butthole for being so lame.
Yes, still lame. Yes, still a stupid song about stupid shoes that probably don’t exist and if they do they probably look like this:
Or maybe like this:
But probably more like this:
Ugly, is what I’m saying.
But then I made the mistake of turning my thinker off to pay attention to traffic for one second and that one second was the exact second that Mr. Carlisle was telling me about this little boy he just met who didn’t have enough money to buy his mom some grotesquely deformed shoes that he was convinced she’d look beautiful in IN CASE SHE MET JESUS TONIGHT.
That was it for me. Once again, this time without a mood-altering human jellyfish to blame, there I was. Niagara Falls. Making me cry? Me? I didn’t cry on my wedding day or when either one of my kids was born (I’m not bragging or anything; I’m just giving you an idea of how often I cry. That is to say, not very.).
I call that assault, Bob. Assault with a deadly weapon called Compassion.