It’s a riddle wrapped in an enigma, topped with chocolaty goodness

I love Christmas. (well, most of the time)
But you know the saying about one bad apple….
Well, I’m the bad apple.

I’m not sure why, but I have this thing about Christmas trees. I love them. I love the smell of them, the feel, the way they bring a little bit of the wilderness into the City Gal’s humble flat.

I’m allergic to ‘em.

Yep, allergic. Like breaking out in hives if I touch them allergic. (I’m also allergic to spores, molds, fungus, cat & dog dander, grass, milk, cow hair {it’s in carpet backing}…
Oh and really strong perfume.

So it’s simple: get an artificial tree.

Can’t do it.

And therein lays the problem.

What’s my deal? They look as good (sometimes better) than the real thing. Some come prelit, there’s half the decorating battle right there. But, being that I also really don’t have any place to store a tree, practically it doesn’t make much sense.
Moot point however, for whatever reason, I cannot bring myself to buy one.

Perhaps I should see a psychologist. I’m sure there’s some deep-rooted fear I have of the damn plastic things…maybe one fell on me (or I fell on it), scarring me for life.

Or maybe I’m just an idiot. You make the call.