While it hardly seems possible Thanksgiving is at our heels again (wasn’t I just racing home in a sundress to plop myself in front of the air conditioner?), it’s the days after we’ve stuffed ourselves with pumpkin pie, when Black Friday blowout sale commercials will immediately make way for ones hawking the latest Holiday Hess Toy Truck, and a trip to CVS includes a mandatory Muzak rendition of “Silver Bells,” that have me anxious. Why? Because they are subtle reminders I need to start thinking about putting up the tree.
Christmas trees, in all their illuminated, wooden ornament-adorned glory, always leave me mesmerized. But this year I am venturing into territory that’s been branded at turns tacky and dowdy: I’m going white.
My fascination with the artificial white tree stems not from a need to stand apart from the other pre-lit seven-footers bought at Lowe’s glowing in New York apartments, but from strolling through the lavish holiday displays at a suburban Fortunoff’s during my youth and hearing my mother utter the word gaudy each time we passed one by. I didn’t think so; I thought they looked glamorous.
A vintage-chic white tree certainly screams Miami boutique hotel more than a third floor New York apartment, but with a little hospitality-inspired design savvy—perhaps a red velvet bow topper to add a pop of contrast, ice blue-hued balls for a cool Snow Queen vibe, maybe even a silvery garland for a sparkly, tactile element —I’m determined to make my misfit Tannenbaum a beauty.