“I don’t want to do the whole big decoration thing this year,” I declared last week to my husband. “Let’s just put up the tree and call it good. I mean it this time. This season, we’re using the KISS method: Keep it simple, stupid : and, by that, I don’t mean you, honey.”

“Thanks,” he said, his eyes fixed on the football game.

“After all, we’re empty-nesters now,” I continued. “The kids have their own place. They don’t care if every nook and cranny in the house is adorned with red and green. Santa hasn’t darkened our chimney for years. It’s time to stop acting like those crazy, over-the-top Griswolds and become the keep it simple, stupid Hamiltons.”

“Whatever you want,” my husband replied, as if he’d uttered that phrase a thousand times before (which, of course, he had.)

“Last year was nuts, remember? First, there was the fiasco with the lights. Then I put all those ornaments on the family room wall. The ‘Christmas Wall of Balls,’ I called it. Think about it: I actually hung balls on the WALL and gave it a NAME! Our friends probably thought I’d lost my mind. And the nutcracker collection is ridiculous. It takes hours to put those things away. Who wants to do THAT on New Year’s Day? You’ve got to wrap them up and find the right boxes : it’s exhausting!”

“Exhausting,” he echoed, and turned up the volume on the TV.

“And how many boxes of decorations do you have to haul down from the attic every year?” I was on a roll. “Seven? 10? You’re no spring chicken, after all. Every year, I think you’re going to throw out your back. Or worse. Then the empty boxes have to go right back up again. And back down after New Year’s. Then back up. It’s insane, really.

“It’s insane, all right,” he sighed.

“Plus, I’m not as limber as I used to be. Climbing up and down to put the greenery on top of the armoire is hard on the knees. And those dining room chairs are getting really wobbly. I could come crashing down one of these days and bring the armoire with me. Then what kind of a Christmas would we have, huh?”

“A bad Christmas. A very bad Christmas.” He was starting to sound like Rain Man.

“Who needs multiple trees, anyway? One is plenty. We don’t need that tabletop tree in our room or that little one I always put in the guest bath. And the garland!! Who on the planet needs that much artificial Canadian pine roping? That stuff sheds, you know. I’m constantly sweeping up those tiny fake pine needles all season long. Then you’ve got to put lights on the garland, which uses more electricity, and that’s bad for the environment. No! It’s got to stop. Less is more.”

I stopped to catch my breath.

“Less is more. Definitely, less is more. Definitely,” he concurred.

“Besides, Mom and Dad aren’t even putting up a TREE this year! She’s doing a little one in the dining room and a few other things, but it will be very minimal. Can you believe it?”

I paused, weighing the gravity of the situation. “I mean, what about tradition? What will the grandkids think when they can’t find the tree? I know the folks don’t want the hassle, but I can’t imagine the old house not dressed up for the holidays like it always was :”

You could have heard a pin drop. (That is, if the football game hadn’t been turned up full blast.) Then my husband reached for the remote. Heaving a sigh, he powered off the TV and slowly rose out of the chair, groaning and stretching his back.

“Where do you want me to put the boxes?” he asked, as he trudged toward the stairs.

“Over there in the corner, next to where the nutcrackers go,” I answered.

“How many do you want?” he inquired, needlessly.

“Just bring them all,” I said. “I’ll go get a dining room chair.”