Designated Elf

There are two kinds of people when it comes to Christmas decorating: the visionaries—and the poor souls they recruit to haul boxes and hold the ladder.

I am—without question—the latter.

I’ve been banned from decorating anything that plugs in, sparkles, or jingles. This isn’t new. This ban didn’t just happen last year; I’ve been on Santa’s do-not-decorate list since tinsel was still legal. Back when you could buy a bag of that silver string, throw it at the tree from across the room, and call it festive. That was my technique—distance decorating. Wherever it landed, I figured that’s clearly where Baby Jesus wanted it.

Turns out, that same philosophy doesn’t fly with lights, garland, or ornaments either. I can’t touch a single thing without an audience. I’m the muscle, not the mind—the Waffle House line cook of holiday décor. Fast, efficient, and under no circumstances allowed to plate the food.

If it were up to me, I could have that tree done before you could yell “Scattered, smothered, and covered.” Would it be beautiful? Probably not. Would it would be done? Absolutely. And in my world, finished beats flawless every time.

But no. Around here, I’m not even allowed to hang a bulb without clearance from headquarters. The other half of my life—let’s call him Jim (because that’s his name)—approaches decorating like he’s performing heart surgery. Each branch must have exactly the same number of lights, perfectly spaced, color-balanced, and cross-checked for lumen output. It takes him two days—two days!—to hang lights. When he’s done, you’d think Clark Griswold looks like he phoned it in.

Me? I’d have that tree wrapped, plugged in, and glowing bright enough to be seen from the International Space Station in about twelve minutes. But nooo—apparently, that’s “too much.”

We used to get real trees, but after one too many near-meltdowns (and I mean literal smoke-and-fire situations), we switched to an artificial pre-lit version. Even then, Jim still goes around “adjusting” the factory lights—because apparently the elves at the North Pole don’t meet his standards.

Ornaments? Same story. I’ll hang a few, step back, and admire my handiwork—only to find the next morning that my contributions have mysteriously migrated to different branches. It’s like a Christmas poltergeist with an eye for symmetry.

Garland? Forget it. I’ve been told, “Don’t touch the garland.” Evidently, it must drape with such mathematical precision you’d think it was installed by NASA. One side dips an inch too low, and I’m out—sent back to the ornament-polishing station where I can’t hurt anyone.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I don’t mind being the labor. I’ll haul boxes, climb ladders, and crawl under the tree to plug in cords that could power a small town. But I do mind being told that my decorating philosophy is, ‘If it’s hanging, it’s good enough.’ I manage to dress myself every day, and not once have I been mistaken for a rodeo clown, so clearly I’ve got some sense of color coordination.

Still, I’ve learned my place. Around here, there’s only room for one designer—and one designated elf. Because the only thing worse than tangled lights is two people trying to decorate a tree together while maintaining the Christmas spirit and not strangling each other.

So, for the sake of holiday harmony, I’ve accepted my fate. I lift, I carry, I untangle, I fetch, and I hang—but only under supervision. Because Scotty cannot be left unsupervised. Not for 5 minutes. Not ever.

So yeah, I’m the Designated Elf.

And honestly? I’m okay with it. Because when that tree is finished—lights perfectly balanced, ornaments magically symmetrical, and blissfully untouched by my signature brand of enthusiastic but haphazard artistic flair—I can stand back, admire it, and say, “Yep… I helped.”

Even if my only contribution was plugging it in.

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🎄 Final Blessing

This Christmas, may your lights be bright, your ornaments unjudged, and your designated elf well-fed and unsupervised—if only for the one night.

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