It was unseasonably warm in Salt Lake yesterday, more like the first of April than the end of December. I was walking around downtown with my coat unzipped and sweat gathering beneath my arms. I wished I’d worn a lighter jacket; still, the sunshine was a pleasant change from the fog and bitter cold of the last couple weeks.

My company’s Christmas luncheon had wrapped up about a half-hour earlier. I imagined most of my co-workers were already miles away from the city center, eager to finish their last-minute shopping, or to get home so they could start enjoying their holiday plans. I, on the other hand, felt no desire to be anywhere in particular. I didn’t feel like going home, and I sure as hell didn’t want to go anywhere near the malls. As for getting started on the holidays… well, the truth is that I’ve been pretty indifferent toward the Christmas season this year. It all seemed to come up too fast, like a squall materializing out of a clear sky to ruin a nice day’s sailing.

Part of that apathy is my own fault, I suppose, generated by my revulsion at how the retail industry seems to push the whole thing down our throats whether we would have it or not, and sooner and sooner every year, as well. I was cringing at the sight of decorations on sale at Costco way back in October. Back in November, I was shuddering when I heard “Jingle Bell Rock” play for the first time over the PA system in Target, a full week before Thanksgiving. Too soon, I railed, too soon, and not because any average person really wants the Christmas season to start around Halloween, but because the faceless corporations want to extend their most profitable time of the year as far as they can get away with. It’s all about the sales, baby, peace-on-earth-good-will-toward-man my butt! Well, I wasn’t going to let them manipulate me… I was going to keep my seasons separate, dammit! First, Halloween, then Thanksgiving, and then, only when the last of the turkey has finally been thrown out because even the dog is sick of eating leftovers, would I deign to think about Christmas. As it should be. There was a principle at stake and I meant to take a stand!

Well, I took my stand alright. I spent so much of the fall resisting the imminent onslaught of tinsel-wrapped marketing and Santa-suited materialism that when fall became winter and it was time to honestly begin thinking of Christmas, I found that I didn’t want to. Moreover, I wasn’t even capable of it. All the obligations that come with the season — the shopping, the cards, the parties, the socially mandated good cheer — were too overwhelming, especially considering the hours demanded by my new job. I wasn’t in the mood for any of it, and I couldn’t wait for the season to be over so I could get back to normal life. Instead of the positive feelings that so many people seem to absorb from the very air this time of year, I just felt exhausted. Empty. And yesterday when my employers bid me and my co-workers Happy Holidays and excused us for the rest of the day, I was still feeling that way, like the one school kid who has to stay inside for misbehaving while his classmates are having fun at recess.

Of course, some of my sense of disconnectedness yesterday afternoon may have come from the three martinis I had at the luncheon’s open bar. But no matter. The point is, I was feeling pretty down as I wandered the city in the unseasonably warm sunshine.

I eventually drifted into Gallivan Plaza, a smallish public square tucked in between three skyscrapers. I found an unoccupied bench and sat down, basking in the sun. I started to pull out my book so I could catch up on Roland of Gilead and his ka-tet’s quest for The Dark Tower, but I changed my mind. It was better to just sit. To just be. I watched ice-skaters glide back and forth on the plaza’s postage-stamp-sized rink, which doubles as a reflecting pond in the warmer months. There was a cluster of pre-adolescent children, holding hands and moving together in a sort of conga line. There was a mother with an unsteady toddler between her legs, holding the little girl’s hands to keep her from toppling over. A teenaged couple grinned and made googly-eyes at each other while a cocky guy shushed effortlessly across their path, his hands in his pockets.

I watched a middle-aged white gentleman kindly offer pointers to a Latino kid who was having trouble keeping his footing. I saw a dad fall on his can in front of his kids, who all laughed at their old man. I surprised myself a little by chuckling, too.

And then a pretty young woman, not far out of high school from the look of her, of Asian ancestry and wearing a gray sweater and a blue scarf, caught my eye and gave me a smile. And — I couldn’t help myself, because she was pretty and because she looked so unabashedly, infectiously, honestly happy — I smiled back.

That’s all that happened. My heart didn’t suddenly grow three sizes and give me the desire to carve the roast Beast for all the little Whos; I didn’t want to double Bob Cratchitt’s salary and become a better uncle to my sister’s foolish son. And I didn’t learn the True Meaning of Christmas™. Nothing so dramatic. But for the one brief moment when I and that Asian girl shared a smile, I no longer felt like a tired old man peering through a window at a feast he couldn’t smell. I felt… free. It was a wonderful and unexpected gift to receive from a total stranger.

I hope all of you experience something like that yourselves during this holiday season.

Merry Christmas, everyone.