The holiday season used to have a dignified flow. A respectful pause. A moment to breathe between celebrations. Now? Now retail has the pacing of a caffeinated squirrel that just discovered time travel and consumerism looping.
It begins with Christmas. Sparkly. Nostalgic. Pine-scented. We buy ornaments, wrap gifts, and consume enough chocolate to legally qualify as a confectionery storage facility. Then December 26th hits, and overnight the stores perform a miraculous transformation. The carols stop. The tinsel vanishes. And suddenly everything is red, pink, and shaped like a heart. Valentine’s Day has arrived, not in February, mind you, but in the gentle afterglow of your Christmas food coma.
You’re still trying to remember where you stored the extra wrapping paper when a display of heart-shaped boxes appears, whispering, “Love is coming. Prepare your wallet.” It’s jarring. One moment you’re buying discounted wrapping bows, the next you’re being emotionally blackmailed into purchasing a stuffed bear holding a satin heart that says “Be Mine.” Retail calendar logic is less of a timeline and more of a hallucination.
And just when you accept that love has replaced cheer, you turn the corner and see it: Easter. Pastel. Egg-shaped. Suspiciously early. Chocolate bunnies standing proudly beside Valentine’s roses like they’ve booked the wrong event but decided to stay anyway.
Which raises the important question: what exactly happened to all the unsold chocolate Santas?
We all know the truth. Nothing in retail ever truly disappears. It merely reincarnates. Those lonely chocolate Santas didn’t get thrown out. Oh no. They’ve been repurposed. Perhaps gently shaved down, a little sculpting here, a new mold there. Santa’s hat melts off. A pair of bunny ears appears. Congratulations, your Easter rabbit has suspiciously wide shoulders and a faintly festive belly.
Or maybe they go another route. The Santas are melted into glossy red hearts for Valentine’s Day. Somewhere in a factory, a machine sighs deeply as it converts ho-ho-holiday spirit into romantic affection. “I once delivered joy,” the chocolate whispers. “Now I symbolize eternal calories, ehem, I mean love.”
It’s recycling at its finest. Sustainable. Efficient. Emotionally confusing. And we the gullible and chocoholic the consumers just accept it. We shuffle through stores in January, holding discounted candy canes in one hand and heart-shaped truffles in the other, while pastel marshmallow chicks stare at us from the horizon. Time has lost all meaning. The seasons are collapsing. Reality is a blur of foil wrappers and frozen foods of Sean’s past. The leftover Christmas turkey or ham will be thawed out for Valentines dinner with fresh roses and pasta. The chocolate truffles thst won’t sell by February 14th will be re-packaged with inspirational messages and attached to sunny tulips for spring brunches.
But perhaps we shouldn’t complain. Because when life feels uncertain, one thing remains consistent: there will always be too much chocolate, arriving far too early, for reasons no one fully understands.And honestly? That might be the only stability left in modern society.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to buy half-price Santas before they evolve into emotionally complicated Easter bunnies.
FrogDiva Thoughts 