As a thirty-something, we are caught in the crossfire. We are too old for the magic of believing in Santa, but too young to fully embrace the stoic quiet of a retirement-community Christmas. We are the sandwich generation of holiday cheer: trying to impress our aging parents, keep the peace with our siblings, and not traumatize our own children or pets.

This year, try the

If the fantasy is "Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Men," the opposite is "Boundaries on the Couch, Goodwill to Myself."

Because the real fantasy isn't a perfect Christmas. The real fantasy is waking up on December 26th without a hangover, without a credit card bill you can't pay, and without any lingering resentment toward your uncle who won't stop talking about his coin collection.

We are exactly three days into December, and I am already tired.