Over Thanksgiving break, my mom and I stopped into Bath & Body Works to pick up some new candles. I took my time sniffing every single one and cross-checking the similar scents to see which I liked best.
I intended to leave with something new and inspiring, but landed back on a tried and true: Hot Cocoa & Cream.
Something about this candle leaves me feeling warm and fuzzy inside. As much as I love the smell, sometimes I need to light a different one despite the desire for my room to smell like liquid chocolate because the scent becomes emotionally overwhelming.
This candle evokes a sense of nostalgia so strong it leaves my chest tingly. It’s odd how one second I’m lighting a candle and the next I’m transported back to a simpler time.
I could go on a whole spiel about my mom baking brownies in the kitchen, the fire crackling on the hearth and Christmas melodies trickling out of the radio, but I’m pretty sure it’s just bringing back memories of the first time I smelled the candle a year ago.
Nevertheless, the smell leaves me feeling all warm and tingly.
I try to save this specific candle scent for late fall into winter so the feeling the scent gives me stays consistent. It’s one of the little things I do to try to put the magic back into the Christmas season.
As a child, I remember waking up obnoxiously early on Christmas and bothering my parents until they finally came out to open presents.
My grandmother, granddad, aunt, mom and dad surrounded me and “oohed” and “aahed” as I found the plate of cookies I left for Santa covered in crumbs then tore through my gifts.
My granddad baked us cinnamon rolls for breakfast, and my family put together massive puzzles while I inevitably ruined their flow with whatever noisy toy I requested that year.
The day was magic.
I woke up with butterflies in my stomach then danced on clouds all day, convinced the glitter trail left in my wake was not due to a craft project I forgot to clean up, but fairy dust.
The older I got, the less magical the holidays became. I hit 13, and my parents were dragging me out of bed at 1 p.m. to open up presents. I turned 18, and I had my laptop out at breakfast finishing a term paper.
The Christmas movies were right; the magic dies as kids grow up.
In the purgatory between childhood and adulthood, I experienced a few dull Christmases. Of course, I loved flying down south to see my relatives. As a teenager, Christmas shopping at a big mall was the dream.
But there were no butterflies. No clouds. No fairy dust.
This year, though, I’ve taken it upon myself to put the magic back into Christmas.
My roommate and I decked our house out in decorations. We have a garland draped across the window, lights wrapped around the banister, stockings on the wall, tinsel around the posts and a tree in the corner.
And of course, there’s always a seasonal scent filling the air.
I may be growing up, but that’s no reason for a magical Christmas to be an antiquated ideal. I’m letting go of my childhood traditions and building new ones.
My roommate and I got matching Christmas pajama pants and are dreaming up ideas to design our own Christmas card to send to friends and family. I’ve set up a few little gift exchanges, and plans to decorate gingerbread houses are in the works.
I’m sure my roommate and I will duet some holiday tunes on the piano or the guitar in between assignments, and the Christmas tree lights never get turned off.
Growing up doesn’t need to be a dead end for all things merry. I may no longer have an inexhaustible, albeit naive, childlike sense of wonder, but as an adult, I have the power to create it for myself.
Price can be reached at [email protected].
