It was the worst Christmas of my life…
Let me start by saying this: Christmas is a big deal in my house. That might surprise people who assume I’m related to Howie Mandel and therefore must be Jewish.
I’m not, but I do celebrate Chrismukkah with some Jewish friends, where we blend both of our traditions into one festive, hybrid holiday.
One of the reasons Christmas looms so large in our medium-small household is that December 25th also happens to be my wife’s birthday.
This means the decorations go up as early as humanly possible, and my carefully curated, multi-day Christmas music mix plays on a near-endless loop.
It’s a soundtrack that spans everything from Renaissance carols to jazzy Christmas classics, filling the house with a joyful noise.
For us, it’s a season of peace, reflection, and reconnecting with family and friends.
I admit it—I still feel like a kid on Christmas morning, though I’ve matured enough to stop waking up at 4 a.m. to tear into my presents. There’s something magical about this time of year, tied to all the little details: the smell of pine boughs, the warm spices of cinnamon and cloves, the soft glow of twinkling lights.
And let’s not forget the Christmas films that fire up our nostalgia every year. We make a point of rewatching A Charlie Brown Christmas, Andre Rieu’s Christmas in London, and the Alastair Sim version of Scrooge.
(Side note: Remember the classic Holiday movie A Christmas Story—the one with Ralphie and his Red Ryder BB gun? All the interior shots of the Indiana house were actually done in a Toronto studio!)
As you can tell, we lean traditional in our holiday tastes. I’ve even perfected the art of switching radio stations within half a second whenever I detect the opening notes of Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas Is You.
No offense, Mariah fans—it’s just not for me.
Anyway, my shopping is done, and despite Canada Post’s untimely strike, all the gifts I ordered have miraculously arrived on time.
Now, I know not everyone is as Christmas-crazy as I am, and that’s okay. For many, this season can be bittersweet or downright painful—especially for those of us who’ve lost someone close. I remember Christmas 1977, the first one my father and I had to endure without my mother. It wasn’t the same, and it never could be.
Even when she was still with us, Christmas wasn’t always perfect. I vividly recall the yearly chaos when the relatives arrived, including my hyperactive younger cousin Dale, who had an unerring knack for breaking at least one of my presents before the day was over.
But thinking back, there was one Christmas that stands out as the worst—not because of loss or family drama, but because of me.
I was around twelve or thirteen, and, well… let me tell you the story.
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The Christmas I Ruined for Myself
It all started a few days before the big event. Like most kids, I couldn’t resist shaking and examining the wrapped presents under the tree, trying to guess what was inside. But that year, curiosity got the better of me in a way it never had before.
One evening, while my parents were out visiting a neighbor, I decided to launch a full-scale covert investigation. My search led me to their bedroom closet, where, hidden behind the clothes, I found it: an electric guitar. It was nestled in a stapled cardboard box, and nearby, I discovered a small amplifier to go with it.
I couldn’t help myself. Carefully, I pried open the brass staples, slid the guitar out, and spent the next hour quietly strumming rudimentary chords. Once I’d had my fill, I repackaged it as neatly as I could and returned everything to its hiding spot.
But I didn’t stop there. Emboldened by my success, I moved on to the presents under the tree. Armed with an X-Acto knife and a roll of Scotch tape, I meticulously slit the tape on each gift, slid them out for inspection, then resealed and returned them to their original positions. By the time my parents got home, I was feeling smugly clever. I knew exactly what I’d be getting for Christmas.
And that’s when the trouble started.
When Christmas morning finally arrived, I realized I’d ruined it for myself. Instead of the usual excitement, I felt oddly guilty and emotionally flat. I had to fake surprise and delight as I unwrapped each gift for the second time, and the thrill I’d been expecting never came.
It was a lesson I never forgot: I never snooped again.
Why Am I Telling You This?
So, why am I sharing this decades-old story of holiday mischief?
Because we humans don’t just like surprises—we need them. Novelty and the unexpected are essential for keeping life interesting. Without them, too much sameness creeps in, making life feel bland, empty, and even disappointing.
It’s a reminder to step outside our comfort zones, to loosen our grip on the controls, and to let life surprise us. Whether you celebrate Christmas or not, there’s magic in the unexpected.
To this day, I wonder how much more thrilling that Christmas morning would have been if I’d waited to unwrap my first electric guitar.
- Mike Mandel
