THE HOLIDAY SPIRIT

Already, a promising window display caught my eye -- a drug store was running a holiday sale on six-packs of Hanes Her Way underwear. Given my laundry situation, I could use a pack of those, I thought, slowing down to take a closer look.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, my yuletide reverie was shattered. A woman behind me on the sidewalk barked in my ear, "Keep moving forward!" She was so close, I could smell the Halls Mentholyptus on her breath.

Wow. In an instant, my mood swung like a pendulum from the happy anticipation of a six-pack of Hanes, to pure, unadulterated fury. Who do these people think they are, snarling at me that way while I'm window-shopping? Anger surged through my veins so quickly it was as if my eggnog latte had been laced with steroids.

I spun around and looked her up and down. She was carrying a hat box with a big bow on it. She bared her teeth.

What happened next surprised even me. I barked right back at her -- and I mean literally barked. The noise that came out of my mouth sounded something like a Doberman.

The woman's eyes widened in alarm. She tightened her grip on the hat box.

"GrrrraarrrrrrrARF!" I continued.

She turned on her heels and fled into a cupcake shop, of all places. Safety among the muffins. "Merry Christmas to you too!" I hollered.

Obviously, I had made a fool of myself. But part of the magic of New York is that all you need to do is walk one block in any direction, and suddenly you’re a perfect stranger again. So I strode away quickly, leaving the underwear purchase for another place and time.

Another good thing about the city is that as soon as you've gone and caused a spectacle, something happens that makes you feel like a paragon of restraint. It didn't take long.

As I was making my beeline for anonymity around the corner, I practically bumped into a guy trying to give a homeless man some gloves. "Want these gloves?" he said, pulling them out of his parka. "They're warm! Come on, take 'em. Free gloves!"

"Thanks," the homeless man said, taking the gloves as I walked past.

The parka guy turned away, then immediately spotted me and started walking by my side. "I been trying to get rid of those gloves for weeks," he said. "They don’t even match!" Then he laughed like a hyena and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

It was just what I needed to regain my moral equilibrium. I mean, it's one thing to bark at a woman with a hat box, but when you try to rip off a homeless man, you’re talking about a whole different level of wickedness. It was as if Santa Claus had given me an early gift -- the gift of someone to feel superior to.

That's when my shopping began in earnest. In the next two hours I covered lots of ground, buying things for my mom, my dad, my niece, my boyfriend, all without having to talk to anybody. I even found the perfect gift for an officemate who's a foodie -- a box of gourmet wasabi-flavored chocolate truffles. This felt like a real triumph. After all, the only thing stranger than having a friend who appreciates things like wasabi-flavored chocolates, is finding a store that actually sells them. Of course, the downside is that at $30 for a box of six little truffles, it's $29 more than a Mounds bar.

Flush with success, I treated myself to a tube of lip-plumping lip gloss. Because it can never hurt to look more like Angelina Jolie.

By now it was well past lunchtime, and I needed some food to refuel for the trip back home. Lucky for me, a newsstand in the subway was selling potato chips -- my favorite, sour cream and chive.

I ripped open the bag and wondered for a moment if the purchase would cause me to miss my train. Indeed, it turned out to be a bad call.

I heard the rumblings of my train, and took off at a speedy trot toward the stairs down to the platform. Then, the instant I reached the top of the steps, I flew into the air as surely as if I had slipped on a banana peel, and tumbled straight down the stairs and into the bowels of the subway.

Down I went, in a kaleidoscope of holiday gifts, flailing limbs and lip gloss. I thought to myself in alarm, "I have absolutely no control over this outcome -- but I sure hope I don’t spill my chips."

I hit bottom just in time to see the doors of the train slam shut.

A good samaritan rushed toward me. "Are you okay?" he asked, and then added sympathetically: "Do you know where you are?"

"Of course I know where I am," I replied. "I'm in hell."

"Well at least you've got some potato chips to eat there," he said, laughing. Despite landing on my back, I was holding the bag straight up in the air.

The next day, at Christmas dinner at a friend's house, I still felt furious and sore.

I limped through the front door, went straight over to the sofa by the fireplace, and plopped down. It was my first chance to tell the story from start to finish, and I took advantage of the opportunity to edit out the most mortifying parts. "Then, this woman hollered at me on the street to keep moving -- and I was simply speechless," I told them. "I mean, what do you do?"

When I got to the part about tumbling down the subway stairs, everyone gathered closer, jaws agape.

"That sounds simply terrible," said my friend's mom. "You must be in such pain -- can I give you a little massage? Here, let me rub your shoulders." She stepped behind the couch and started giving me a rubdown.

I relaxed into the cushions. The lights on the Christmas tree twinkled; the logs in the fireplace cracked and settled. On the street below, a group of carolers launched into "Good King Wenceslas."

This Christmas is taking a turn for the better, I thought to myself. Then, I said to no one in particular, "Can you pour me some of that wine?"