I’ve been beaten into submission by a strand of 100 white mini-lights.

There it is, lying on the rug at my feet. Forty-seven of the lights are glowing brightly; the remaining 53 are, inexplicably, dark. I’ve been battling them for 12 rounds, and I’m down for the count. I sink to the floor next to the tree, raising a white tea towel in surrender.

It occurs to me that this single string of tiny bulbs is a symbol – a maddening reminder of all the uncooperative lights that reduce me and my husband to floundering lunatics year after year.

We’re not alone. Behind every spectacular illuminated display – every glorious tree, elegant mantle piece or front yard extravaganza – there is a brush with madness. The Madness of the Mini-lights.

There hasn’t been a single year – not one! – when the lighting process in our home has gone without a hitch. There have been SO many hitches, in fact, we should just change our name to Mr. and Mrs. Hitch. We could have our own Christmas special: “String Along with Hitch!” (Cut to TV promo announcer: “Meet the wacky couple that makes the Griswolds look like electrical geniuses in this musical tragicomedy for the whole family!”)

But I digress. (Sorry, it’s the Madness talking.)

As I struggle to my feet, tears of frustration welling up in my eyes, I see my husband through the window wrestling with a long, orange extension cord outside in the cold. I shake my head and think of all the cords we’ve tried to untangle and unkink, plug and unplug, de-short or re-fuse in the last 27 years.

There were the little white ones I placed gingerly atop the garland on my mantel, only to have them blink off just as I stepped back to admire my handiwork. The large multicolored ones on the bushes my husband carefully wiggled into compliance; the ones that went dark the second he turned his back. And, God help us, the blinking ones! Those unpredictable, mind-of-their-own, no-logical-explanation-for, stinkin’ blinkers!

As I watch my husband trying to shoot the lights into the treetops with a bow and arrow (what can I tell you, he’s an Eagle Scout), I have an epiphany: We need professional help.

I don’t mean those professional decorators who come to your home and tangle with your twinklers for a fee (as tempting as that immediately sounds!) We need a mental health professional to illuminate us on the cause of this disturbing pattern of holiday behavior. We need answers to a multitude of questions, such as: Why, after finally deciding to invest in a pre-lit artificial tree last year, did we purchase the FLOOR MODEL, knowing the stupid thing had been burning day and night for weeks and that hundreds of little kids had put their grimy mitts on half of the 800 bulbs?

And why were we surprised (and outraged) this year when we assembled the same tree and three entire strands refused to light? (In our defense, they worked fine when we boxed up the tree last January. What happened in the off-season? Did gremlins sneak into our attic, burrow into the box and loosen all the connections, snickering mischievously?)

What makes us persist, for hours and hours, jiggling and tightening every last bulb on a faulty string of lights, or plugging it into a second outlet when we KNOW the first one worked fine?

Could it be the same reason we coil all of our old lights, fasten them with twisty ties and pack them away neatly into boxes even though they HAVEN’T WORKED IN 10 YEARS?

Are we that reluctant to admit defeat? Too cheap to spend the $2.97 it takes to buy a new strand? A lousy $2.97! That’s a grande no-fat vanilla latte or a six-pack of Milwaukee’s Best! How much is our time worth per hour? You don’t have to be Good Will Hunting to do THAT math!

And why, when we finally decide to purchase new lights, does it take not one, but THREE trips to the hardware store to get the right kind!?!

I heave a sigh and pledge to find a psychologist to help solve our holiday lighting issues.

But first, I’m going to give those little suckers on the floor one more wiggle and see if that does the trick.