My Beloved wanted to put on How the Grinch Stole Christmas tonight when the TV refused to give us anything better to watch no matter how much we flipped. I agreed, partly because I was doing Christmas cards (which I finally finished, by the way!) and partly because I keep thinking that the more I immerse myself in Christmas (when I can), the easier it will be to deal with when the big day arrives. I'm not sure that's actually going to be the case, but I do feel that for me it's wise not to avoid the festivities altogether. The shock of Christmas day and all the trimmings would be too much for me to bear without warming up a little first. It's all a delicate little balancing act, this grieving during the holidays thing.
Anyway, the opening lines of The Grinch, as I'm sure everyone knows, discuss what a hateful soul he is and reveal that he despises Christmas. The narrator goes on to say that no one knows why.
I looked up from my Christmas cards, glanced at the snarling green face on the TV screen and said to My Beloved, "Maybe his son died too - did they ever thing of that? DID THEY??"
I've ruined The Grinch forever. I used to delight in his nastiness and marvel at his remarkable transformation. Now I just wonder what the hell happened to the poor guy to make him so miserable in the first place. Why doesn't anyone tell THAT story? It's marvelous that the show ends with his heart growing four sizes that day, but I'd really like to know what horrible blow crushed it in the first place.
Misery loves company. Even in the cartoons.
God help me, I just can't hate the Grinch anymore.